


Tightropes

by agamous (apetala)



Series: Tightropes [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: 007 AU, Cristiano as the deadliest of Bond girls, James Bond is a name that goes with the 007 title in this universe, Listening to Skyfall by Adele on repeat and its a trip, M/M, Sergio Ramos fills in sort of Moneypenny's role from skyfall, TW: Violence, hand wavy Mediterranean beach town with too many rich people, starring Zidane as Bond, tw: dubious consent, tw: implied noncon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:57:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apetala/pseuds/agamous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zidane is an agent who's been in the field for too long. </p><p>It's hard to say what Cristiano is, other than a goddamn tease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> James Bond AU
> 
> Might come back to rework the first chapter later on!

Zidane took a sip of his wine, and waited.

 

His mark was supposed to have arrived already to the hotel, but was running late. The lobby wasn’t terrible, he supposed, even if the black marble was ostentatious, but he was still feeling the aftereffects of the last mission. He had been a half second too slow clipping the last armed guard and had a fresh graze on his shoulder.

 

It figured M would plant him to do basic surveillance work for this mission, while Figo was assigned to actively infiltrate their target’s warehouses just out of the city. M had a long memory, and she was still displeased at how his last mission in Southeast Asia had ended in a public mass casualty incident, never mind the fact that it was hardly his fault.

 

“Twiddling your thumbs?” His handler’s voice crackled in his ear, not even trying to hide his laughter.

 

“This is a waste of time.” Zidane murmured, allowing his voice to betray only a mere hint of his irritation. Sergio caught it anyways.

 

“Relax 007. There’s gridlock throughout the city at this time. It’s not unexpected that your target would be late. All the better for 003 to complete his work.”

 

Zidane took another sip, not answering.

 

“If you finish early, you should go down to the beach.” Sergio mused, ignoring the way Zidane was gritting his teeth. “There’s a pool in the office right now betting on how many people you’re going to pull this mission.”

 

“Enough.” Thankfully for his temper, the target rolled in through the entranceway. He was an older man, soft around the middle, short grey hair slicked down. He looked utterly undistinguished, except for the hardness in his eyes, and the casual bodyguards surrounding him.

 

A pretty redhead PA that was part of his entourage checked in for him, and he was gone in the next instant into the elevators, silent men following behind him except for a few who milled around the reception front. One of them tucked a simple business card into his suit pocket.

 

“He just came in.” Zidane said. “As expected, your intelligence was correct. So I don’t see why M insist that I confirm this when any raw agent could have done this.”

 

“She’s just keeping you on a short leash until you learn to take orders better.” Sergio replied cheerfully.

 

In a smooth movement Zidane picked the tech free from his ear and placed it into his glass. He strode past one of the body guards, bumping into his shoulder rather hard.

 

“My apologies.” Zidane said in passing, palm out in apology. The man cursed at him but in a low voice—the lobby was full of guests strolling about. Zidane had left the entranceway before the others could collect themselves to do anything—clearly amateurs. He fingered the edge of the card he had casually pickpocketed from the man as he strolled down the main causeway alongside the stunning Mediterranean coastline.

 

Zidane knew that M was going to give him hell for ruining tech and deviating from procedures after this, but in the warmth of the summer sun that soothed the ache in his shoulder, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

 

The causeway was filled with crowds of people, milling about and enjoying the sun. The coastline where Zidane was stationed at formed a natural bay around the jewel toned water, brilliant turquoise and deep ultramarine. Ordinary people excitedly milling around the sands to tan and play their games, others swelling the shops around the road to bursting.

 

And also.

 

Others choosing to go for a swim.

 

His clean freestyle was what caught Zidane’s eye at first, the arms cleanly knifing through the water. Zidane could see how his form was perfect, a suntanned body swimming through the water with power, quickly making his way from the buoys to the shoreline.

 

The dark-haired man was clearly at the end of his swim, and when he was nearly to the sands, he straightened up, and stood up. Walking up slowly in the hip-deep water, he made his way back to dry land.

 

Zidane could see how his form was perfect as well.

 

Skin that had soaked the sun, warm and sleek. Thick powerful thighs that made a man want to measure the span of using his hands. His physique was muscular, and yet somehow he still maintained the gracility of a boy, broad shoulders that contrasted with the slimness of his waist. A pair of pearl white swimming shorts that cut high enough to raise eyebrows, and clung sinfully tight to his hips.

 

It was his eyes though, that made Zidane stop in his tracks. Sleepy doe eyes with unbelievably long lashes. Something sinful, and something honey sweet in their expression.

 

He glanced up in passing at Zidane, who was still looking down at him from the causeway, hands in his pockets. Drying himself with a towel, the stranger made his way into a private section of the beach, separated by a tent, and Zidane walked on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey guess what?” Sergio smiled.

 

Zidane didn’t deign to answer back. There was no need to, after all.

 

“M sent a Mr. Jorge Velasquez on vacation. Jorge a thirty three year old computer engineer who is here for a work conference, which happens to be held quite close to this hotel. Very nice. A bit out of Jorge’s price range, but he work Silicon Valley, and his company can afford it. He may have a room booked quite close to yours, in fact.”

 

Sergio sat on Zidane’s bed and smiled broadly.

 

“How close.” Zidane deadpanned.

 

“Right next door. Quite convenient, no?”

 

“Not at all. Only M knows I don’t appreciate being sent deadweight on a mission.”

 

Sergio affected hurt at Zidane’s response. “Who has been saving you from sneak attacks and surprise guards this whole year?”

 

“M should know better than to send you back into the field.” Zidane growled.

 

“Are you still thinking about the last mission in Gaborone? That was last June. The physical therapy fixed it, my shoulder doesn’t even hurt anymore except before cold snaps—“

 

“You’re not leaving the hotel room.”

 

“This isn’t the time to be overprotective and guilty, 007.” Sergio’s voice was clear, though his eyebrows were starting to knit. He was still so young—too young—and his legendary temper still showed itself all too clearly under stress. “Gaborone wasn’t your fault.”

 

“No. It was yours.”

 

Sergio threw his hands up. “Fine, be your usual grumpy old man. But M was clear that I need to gain access to our target’s room, so I can run surveillance better. 003 was unsuccessful. The warehouses our information indicated were empty. They were decoys. The bioweapon is housed elsewhere.”

 

Zidane shook his head. “A decoy? So our target knows M-15 is aware of him.”

 

“Could be.” Sergio said, pulling out a laptop. “There’s more mission specifics I need to give to you personally as well. By the way, Q says next time you dunk his earpiece into a drink, to please warn him ahead of time, or he’ll stop sending you his good prototypes.”

 

“Does he ever have bad ones.” Zidane replied absently, taking the laptop from Sergio to scroll though the details.

 

“Those he uses on me as practice.” Sergio complained. “My ears are still ringing from the exploding pen.”

 

“Was 003 all right, by the way?”

 

“He’s a professional, unlike you. He made it out on his own, but he went to report to a local branch of Medical, following protocol. The protocol you hate so much.”

 

It was a tiny one, but Zidane’s mouth curved into a smile. “You talk as if you don’t.”

 

Sergio’s smile was all teeth and mischief. “Maybe that’s the real reason M sent me here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Zidane strolled around the party, to all appearances casually bored out of his mind, sharing the ennui of the other ultra-rich guests in the rooms. In truth he was on alert, categorizing everything he saw, looking for any openings to somehow crack open their target’s inner circle.

 

It didn’t seem likely. The target wasn’t even present at this party, most likely behind some closed doors somewhere in the mansion. Most likely trying to negotiate buyers for the bioweapon he had stolen. No one else in this party was likely to be close friends to the target, close enough to justify getting behind those closed doors anyways.

 

So that meant Zidane had to find an excuse to be in rooms that he didn’t belong to.

 

He scanned the crowds for an alibi.

 

There were countless lovely women, and men as well. Women drowning in diamonds and pearls, with glittering décolletages expdosed by plunging necklines and cunning slits. Men dressed impeccably, that fit sinfully tight to their slim bodies, without ruining the line of the suit.

 

But somehow, Zidane’s instinct veered from them. They were not quite right as an excuse, as a diversion.

 

Zidane chose to walk out into the balcony instead. The cool night air was scented faintly with the surf, that could be heard over the cool blue grass in the moonlight.

 

“Oh? I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

 

Zidane heard the man speak first before he heard his approach, which was a surprise he hid. He should have heard him, but the man’s movements were utterly silent, somehow.

 

He turned, and the other man’s eyebrows lifted.

 

“Did I see you earlier at the beach?”

 

It was the dark eyed man, dressed in a soft white button up shirt that clung to every curve of his body, and nothing else. Eyebrows opened innocently in surprise at meeting an acquaintance, without even a hint of embarrassment at being caught with bare legs.

 

On a second look, though the shirt was long enough to cover him to the cusp of the upper thighs, the man seemed to be wearing black briefs underneath.

 

And on Zidane’s third discreet look, he realized the man was in fact, wearing dark lace lingerie panties. He could see the delicate lace inset when the man lifted his arm to shake hands, and the shirt lifted in correspondence.

 

“We did.” Zidane shook his hand, a single grasp. “You seem rather…underdressed for this event.”

 

“My, you’ve noticed already?” The man laughed, a low sound in his throat. “I’m afraid I’m not part of this gathering. There’s a private party on the other side of this mansion that I’m with.”

 

“Must be a delightful one.” Zidane replied.

 

The man laughed again. “My name is Cristiano, by the way.”

 

“James.”

 

Cristiano cocked his head to the side, a teasing smile on his face. “You don’t look like a James.”

 

“I also go by Bond.”

 

“Well then.” Cristiano nodded his head. “Hello, Bond. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

Zidane smiled.

 

“I hate to cut our introduction short, but I must be getting back soon.” Cristiano said.

 

“A shame. I would like to get to know you better.”

 

“Mm. Likewise. I have my daily swim in the usual shoreline, come say hello if you please.”

 

“I believe I will. You have beautiful form.”

 

“Ah, but you probably say that to all the swimmers you see.”

 

“I wasn’t talking of your swimming.”

 

Cristiano laughed. “Truly, I look forward to seeing you again. Goodbye, Bond.”

 

Zidane watched Cristiano go, and while he was sad to see that pretty face go, he had an unparalleled view of Cristiano’s ass clad in clinging silk lace panties, walking back to the other side of the balcony, to disappear into the darkness of the doorway on the other side.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Zidane could have waited.

 

Waiting it out and regrouping would have been the smart thing to do. It would have been the way M wanted it. Zidane had established that the house indeed was housing two separate meetings. Other field agents could have later scoped the place, parsed it for weaknesses, for intelligence on who was coming, and for what purpose.

 

There was no further need for evidence.

 

But Zidane wanted to be sure. He didn’t tolerate slipshod work. He needed confirmation that indeed, the man M-16 had pinpointed as the owner of the bioweapon, was indeed so.

 

And if buyers were already in house for it, it made all the more sense not to waste time. He was a double-oh, after all.

 

If Zidane had somewhat ulterior motives, if he was just a little curious as to what sort of gathering required a beautiful man in black silk panties that shone like water in the light of the balcony moon. Well.

 

He was only human after all as well.

 

* * *

 

 

Once Zidane had found the second entrance, which was discreetly hidden by the thick grove of pomegranate trees surrounding the back portion of the estate, getting in was simple.

 

There was a few guards for the estate lolling around, chatting while uncomfortably shifting around their weapons. Zidane idly noted a few things, ambling up the path openly and relaxed. For one, these men were also amateurs, most likely local thugs hired for a quick job. Two, the guns they were palming all over like a hockey stick were not run of the mill weapons, but military grade.

 

Zidane had ample opportunity to observe them closely when the guards finally noticed him, walking from the latticed shadow of the trees and approaching them. Chatter stopped, and all eyes sped to Zidane’s. Some trigger happy idiots went as far as raising their rifles at him, with narrowed eyes.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” One man asked, swaggering up to him, a giant of a man with a nasty leer.   


Zidane helds his hands out to the side, a movement both questioning and arrogant. “I was invited. But I must say, I was not expecting this sort of reception.”

 

“The hell you were.” Big ugly cocked his gun. “If you were, you’d be coming in a fancy car like all these other important shitheels.”

“I don’t think your boss would appreciate your use of description for his guests.” Zidane replied coolly. “Especially seeing how I am one of them.”

 

With a steady movement, Zidane reached inside his suit, to pull out the business card he had pickpocketed earlier in the day from that bodyguard in the lobby. The emerald green ink on the card flashed in the light as Big ugly came closer to peer at it.

  

“Well shit.” He grumbled. “It looks all right.”

 

“Please don’t waste my time further.” Zidane smiled, showing his teeth. “I’m late as it is, and I wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

 

Big ugly frowned, but waved Zidane through, and the other guards around the grove relaxed. “Why aren’t you in a car, sir?”

 

Zidane shrugged, walking past the man towards the tall French doors, where he could see the warm beckoning of lights and silhouettes. “I felt like taking a walk tonight.”

 

One of the other guards heaved an unpleasant laugh. “It’s a full moon tonight. Better be careful the devil doesn’t catch you.”

 

“Oh, we’re old friends.” Zidane assured him. Two men at the door opened the doors for Zidane, and without a moment’s hesitation, he walked in.

 

* * *

 

 

At first glance, this party was not much different than the other one.

 

The people looked much the same. The same super rich, dressed sumptuously and conspicuously, milling under the high baroque ceilings of the mansion. The same achingly beautiful bodies, as well as the same powerful men, bloated with hunger and desire.

 

But Zidane hadn’t survived in the field for years by trusting his first impressions only.

 

Because there was definitely something different in the atmosphere alone.

 

Zidane could see it in the eyes of certain men. Men who stood still, nucleuses of which revolved around an activity of bodyguards, assistants, and lovely people.

 

These were the eyes of predators. Of men who were nothing more than sharks, attracted to the chaos lining the underbelly of the dark side of the world. Feasting on opportunity, gluttonous for more, mawing jaws hungry for the pulp of the weaker.

 

There was blood in the water here. There was bait here, drawing all these men of war and suffering and misery.

 

The hairs of Zidane’s neck prickled, but his face remained the same set of serenely amused.

 

But there was also something more to the mood here.

 

Perhaps it was in how some of the people walking around the main hall, and collected in the circles, were wearing elaborate masks, jeweled and feathered.

 

Perhaps it was in how some of the men and women were dressed in scintillating crystals and delicate shoes, and nothing else. Jeweled scales hugging close to their taut bodies as gorgeous snakeskin, while plumes of feathers curled in their hair.

 

Perhaps it was in how some of those men and women were sitting at attention, in the middle of the circle, poised like songbirds on the laps of those men of blood. Those men who were casually running hands over their bodies as they talked, equal parts hunger and arrogance.

 

And as Zidane walked into the side room from the main hall, where there seemed to be a crowd of people, watching raptly, Zidane knew what other sort of bait was here.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Cristiano_.

 

A twist, and then unfurling of dark fabric, as delicate as tissue to the eye.

 

But the man whose ankle and thigh was wrapped around the fabric, suspended in the air, twisting his body around the fabric that hung from above. Heavy as a clock’s pendulum, marking time in the upper air, conversing silently with the painted cherubs of the heavenly ceiling. He twisted and turned, stretching those unbelievably long legs above the crowd as if he was forever in mid leap.

 

And he did it dressed in those maddening black panties, taut against the strain of his thighs. The man was even arrogant enough to do his aerial silks in ink black satin stockings that tucked into strappy little heels with a thin murderous stiletto to them. Zidane saw how Cris was careful not to snap the heels or snag the fabric as he shimmied upwards, the cloth brushing against the complex lashes of his garter belt and bralette, straining tight against his belly and chest.

 

Grave archangels watched from the ceiling, as Cristiano rapidly wound the fabric around an ankle and a wrist, and with a spin that raised gasps, nearly spiraled to the floor, the fabric tightening cruelly around his arm and ankle. But as Cristiano effortlessly pointed his other leg out gracefully, and the silk fanned out in the air behind him, he arched his body into a lithe bow.

 

And for a moment, while every other person in the room was entranced by the sight of Cristiano’s panties riding far, far up his exquisite ass, Zidane had his own flash of vision.

 

A man caught in a spider web, tying him by his hands and feet, suspended over a pit of predators. Walking the thinnest of lines, between uncaught, and caught.

 

Then a final shimmy, and Cristiano’s feet landing lightly on the floor, in the midst of applause, and the vision was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Zidane was in the doorway, too far from Cristiano to try to make his way through the crowd to say a greeting.

 

However, Zidane was in the perfect place to observe the room, now in a state of movement and buzz. He saw the bodyguards of earlier, including the one he had pickpocketed, milling about. The stupid one he had taken the card from, a bulky man with jewel colored eyes, was speaking to Cristiano, a hand on the bare skin of Cristiano’s back. Cristiano was standing very straight and still, as he replied. The words were lost in the distance, of course, but between the glimpses Zidane had, it was abundantly clear Cristiano did not like how close the other man was. With a curt shake of his head, Cristiano walked away. The bodyguard stared at Cristiano’s receding back, an expression of equal parts appetite and resentment twisting his face.

 

But soon all the bodyguards seemed to be moving towards the interior doorway on the other side of Zidane, an invisible set of commands drawing them to cluster there. The air of the room changed, into an expectant hush, people craning their heads to catch a glimpse of the person walking in the silent room. His shoes echoing slowly on the floor of the room. Zidane continued to sip at his wine, and the crowd parted enough for him to see the man of the hour.

 

It was the same nondescript man of before in the hotel. He looked utterly ordinary, a simple business man on vacation. Again, it was only the eyes that hinted that there might be anything out of ordinary about him. Dark, emotionless eyes, that looked over this crowd of murderers who wore their wickedness in a gloat, and had absolutely no fear at all of them.

 

These men of iniquities waited politely for the man to speak, waited politely from where they stood.

 

In this froth of sharks stood the man that M-16, and shadowy whispers, only knew as Virgil.

 

“Thank you for your patience tonight.”

 

The room somehow grew even more silent. Zidane took another sip of wine.

 

“This has been an evening of pleasure for me, to see how many men share my vision for the world tonight.”

 

An ugly chorus of chuckles rang.

 

“I invite you all to enjoy your night here. As stated before, I will be meeting all of you later in the week to entertain your offers. I suggest, to consider deeply, what you are all willing to pay.”

 

An odd turn of phrase. The rest of the room didn’t like that sentence as well, Zidane could see, but no one said a word.

 

“Enjoy your evening.”

 

And with that, the man walked back, the bodyguards followed after him.

 

There was a good minute of silence after Virgil had left. People lit cigars, shared meaningful glances, took sips of their wine. On the surface the room looked still and peaceful.

 

Zidane however, saw how the strings of tension were now tight as a bowstring. Men were sizing each other up in the room, calculating. How much to offer. How to make their case. Who of their rival’s they would have to kill to get their hands on the weapon.

 

Zidane had enough of what he saw.

 

He made his way through the room, murmuring soft and polite excuses as he brushed by people. He dropped his empty glass on the waiting hand of a ghostly server making his way around the room, and plucked a flute of champagne.

 

He made his way out, unobtrusively. As he exited the main doors, he thought he heard muffled coughing behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

M-16 hadn’t been able to collect much information about the current owner of the bioweapon. They had only been able to collect intelligence on the aftereffects of the bioweapon, some sort of genetically enhanced super virus that swept through people like a scythe, leaving them dead in hours. Power brokers, arms dealers, mob bosses were cropping up dead throughout the world, them and their men dead where they collapsed in their bases.

 

The only hint M-16 even had that what they were seeing was a plague, was a lucky sample taken from a barely alive subject. The viral strain collected was engineered to self destruct after a certain number of generations, but R&D were able to analyze the DNA fragments that remained, and were able to determine that this was indeed a engineered virus, the sheer complexity and virulence both speaking to a genius, and a sociopath.

 

This weapon would erase the need for physical weapons. Why threaten people and governments with guns, when they could hold the threat of plague over them? The mere existence of the virus threatened the power structure of governments everywhere. M wanted two things only from this mission: to find and destroy any traces of the bioweapon, and to find the man who had engineered this virus.

 

There was no guarantee that Virgil was indeed the creator of the virus. But if it wasn’t him, then he at least would know who it was.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio waved at him from the bed as Zidane entered his hotel room. He was on his belly, laptop in front of him.

 

“Have fun tonight?” Sergio asked absently, as Zidane began to shrug off his suit jacket. “If you picked anyone up, let me know. I bet Marci two desks over a hundred that you would find someone the first night here.”

 

Zidane plucked the card from his suit pocket, and walked over to Sergio. Sergio looked up quizzically, to see Zidane place the card in front of him.

 

“How fast do you think you can analyze this, as well as trace some names?” Zidane asked.

 

Sergio’s forehead furrowed. “What is this card? I don’t have my equipment on me here. I’d have to turn it in to the local branch here.”

 

“No time. What can you do right now?”

 

“Ummm…” Sergio picked the card up and took a quick look. “Probably some chemical analyses, and I can tap into my network to ask about what they know. Why so urgent?”

 

“I saw our target tonight. He invited buyers tonight. Preliminary proceedings. I think the bioweapon is going to exchange hands this week.”

 

“Well, shit.” Sergio breathed, looking stunned. “Wait, we have to inform M-16 immediately. And why didn’t you let me know you were going on reconnaissance tonight? You could have needed support.”

 

“It was a spur of the moment decision. I had orders to only follow at first, but the situation called for closer observance.”

 

“M is going to kill you, and she will enjoy doing it slowly.” Sergio said solemnly.

 

“She won’t be the first one in line.” Zidane said. There was a restless thrum in his blood, the adrenaline after the mission, that which he was used to.

 

But the thought of Cristiano tonight as well. The memory of his beautiful sloe eyes, and the strain of his thick thighs, silk tensed between them as he hung upside down in the air, tied up in silk. It was a shameless display meant to fire the blood.

 

A shameless display that worked.

 

“How much time will you take?” Zidane asked brusquely, sitting on the bed close to Sergio, slipping off his tie.

 

Sergio looked up, from typing furiously in his laptop. “Analyses will take at least half the night.”

 

“Good.” Zidane said, raising his hand to thumb Sergio’s bottom lip. “Then we have some time.”

 

* * *

 

  

Once upon a time, him and Sergio used to be closer.

 

Now, after their final, disastrous mission, him and Sergio were more often than not, out of sorts with one another.

 

But now and then, they found themselves in sync again.

 

When it was over, Sergio was sprawled out against Zidane, a sweaty, panting heap. He was so carelessly young. Sergio stretched, baring his neck, and Zidane fought back the impulse to bite him, to take him again at his most vulnerable.

 

And that was what Zidane feared about Sergio. How vulnerable he was.

 

It was just that he was so young, and brash, and _stupid_. He jumped headlong into missions without thinking first. He came in guns blazing on rescue missions that required stealth.

 

He trusted Zidane. He trusted a double-oh, who only left death and wreckage in his wake.

 

When Sergio had hit the ground in Gaborone, his shoulder a pulpy mess from shrapnel, Zidane had felt true fear pierce his heart. For a long minute, Zidane forgot about the mission.

 

All that had mattered, was to get to Sergio, bleeding out in the dust. Both so far from support, and from home.

 

Emotional weakness was a hazard to a double-oh. M had told him as much, when Zidane was waiting in the hospital for news of Sergio post surgery. That she would split them up from now on. Sergio was unlikely to ever make double-oh now, but he had shown a surprising aptitude for intelligence gathering. She could make sure he would work office from now on.

 

And so it was done.

 

And yet, as Sergio stirred and yawned, and started to talk about having to check his laptop, Zidane found that somehow he was still just as exposed as before.

 

And so to chase away that feeling, dizzying as if standing on the edge of a cliff, Zidane reached out to grasp Sergio by the waist. Turning him over, and pressing him against the bed. Sergio complained at first, but hushed quickly when Zidane flattened his hands against Sergio’s belly, trapping him. With achingly slow kisses, and Sergio’s breathy moans, Zidane found it easy to forget.

 

* * *

  

Of course though, he didn’t forget about Cristiano.

 

Zidane was at the shoreline this time. He waited patiently on a gaudily colored deck chair, watching Cristiano make his laps in the water.

 

When the sloe-eyed man was finished, he made his way out of the shining water, smiling at the sight of Zidane. Cristiano was no less stunning then yesterday, the water making his skin gleam in the sun.

 

“I enjoyed your show last night.” Zidane greeted Cristiano, who raised his eyebrows.

 

“I didn’t think you were one of the invited guests yesterday?”

 

Zidane smiled. “Perhaps I was not.” Cristiano’s eyebrows raised even higher at those words.

 

“It’s dangerous to be poking about places where you were not invited to, Bond. Though I’m glad you got to see me.”

 

“You were magnificent.” Zidane reassured. “Believe me, seeing you in stockings and lingerie is quite worth the punishment.”

 

“Is that all you noticed?” Cristiano huffed, smile breaking even wider. “My feelings are hurt. And here I thought you were impressed with my performance.”

 

“Perhaps I need a personal demonstration of your performance to evaluate it better.”  


“Now, you’re making me feel quite shy.”

 

“Dressed as you were in front of a crowd of people last night? I doubt you have anything left to feel shy about.” Zidane leaned in slightly closer. “Though it did seem you did not like everyone in the crowd watching you.”

 

Cristiano’s breath caught, but only for a moment. He continued to dry his hair with the towel that had been beside Zidane. “How could I like everyone? Most of the people in the room were strangers to me.”

 

“Not everyone, from what I saw.”

 

Cristiano began to pat down his belly and thighs. “There are always those who try to take liberties after, of course. It is a simple matter to set them straight.”

 

“Do you need someone to protect your virtue, Cristiano?” Zidane spoke teasingly. “I can think of some who would volunteer gladly for the task.”

 

Cristiano looked up, bent at the waist to dry off his calves, and his smile grew crooked. “I do believe there are many men, Bond. But I simply don’t know if they can be trusted. Who is to say the guard dog won’t turn into a ravenous predator?”

 

Zidane shrugged. “I suppose it would depend on your judgement.”

 

Cristiano shook his head in mock disappointment, and Zidane added, “However. If you were ever truly in need, if you ever need my help. You can ask it of me, anytime.”

 

Cristiano raised an eyebrow, but Zidane could see how still he was. “That’s a bold statement, from someone who barely knows me.”

 

“It’s true. I do not know much of you.” Cristiano sighed, and began to turn to the side to place the towel back, when Zidane’s hand snaked out to grasp him by the wrist. “However, I think I know something of the men you were with. I do not know their names. But I know the look of bad men when I see them.”

 

Cristiano stared at Zidane, an expression that revealed nothing and yet was full of some emotion that Zidane couldn’t quite read. There was a long moment of silence between them, as Zidane held Cristiano’s wrist, the sounds of the beach surrounding them—the cries of children, the laughter of ordinary people enjoying themselves. The wind ruffled the fringe of the deck umbrella.

 

“I will think about it.” Cristiano’s voice was light, and Zidane knew further than to push. He let go of Cristiano’s wrist.

 

“You know, if I didn’t know better,” Cristiano mused, “I’d say you were a bad man yourself.”

 

“Who is to say I am not?” Zidane replied.

 

“Indeed.” Cristiano seemed to struggle for words for a second, trying to decide on something. Finally he began to speak.   
  
“You know, you don’t have to sneak inside to see me perform. Come tonight. Tell Frederick at the door that you are my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the backplot thickens


	3. Chapter 3

Frederick was a burly man, with a shelf for a face, who stared at Zidane for a disconcertingly long time, before slightly moving aside to allow Zidane entrance.

  
Zidane nodded at him, and was just about to pass, when Frederick blocked the door with an arm. A veritable granite block of an arm.

 

Zidane looked at him. Frederick had the same exact expression on his face as he did before—a brick wall that absorbed everything around it while exposing nothing.

 

“Cristiano’s never had a friend here before.” Frederick grunted.

 

“Really? He seems quite popular, from what I’ve seen.” Zidane smiled.

 

Frederick did not seem amused. “He attracts too much attention.” He finally said.

 

“Is that so?”

 

With a smooth movement, Frederick leaned closer. Zidane stared him in the eyes, still smiling, and only with the very subtlest of shift in weight.

 

“He is not the man many think he is.”

 

And with that, Frederick stepped back, and walked away from the door.

 

* * *

 

 

When Zidane tried to recollect his memories of his visit afterwards, he could never make sense of his memories, strangely fractured and fevered.

 

Wasn’t he always walking through the corridors of this house now, an impossible maze of rooms and hallways for days, months, years, even? Hadn’t he been trapped in a cage of gilded gold and steel and bodies his life? He would walk through a room dizzy with lovely faces, brilliant and heartless jewels refracting points of cruel light into his eyes and with teeth as sharp as wolves, a long ballroom of chandeliers burning like suns, rooms that housed an impossibly vast dark, full of sighs and whispers.

 

And then one clear memory. Cristiano’s face, bright as a star underneath the low lights of the room. Placing a cool hand on Zidane’s strangely fevered cheek, a touch that surprised him for the calluses he could feel.

 

And it was as if the rasp of Cristiano’s skin woke Zidane up, and the world unfurled around him. In a room, quite spacious and empty, the ceiling soft with great plumes of ostrich feathers that furred the blush pink room into something like a midnight smile, the scent of jasmine in the air.

 

And Cristiano. How had he not seen Cristiano before this?

 

Cristiano in a room full of angel feathers, but dressed to make even the devil sing. Not the strappy, almost athletic lingerie of last night, but a gauzy, see through, dusty rose nightgown that tied at his waist and floated into a burst of gorgeous blooms at the hem, leaving his chest and shoulders bare, except for a collar of diamonds at his throat. The dress played at modesty, but anyone could see the shine of Cristiano’s skin underneath the gown, his taut nipples pebbling in the air, the place where his legs met, that center of him that Zidane’s fingers ached to sink into, to delve into, to thrust and claim as his.

 

Cristiano saw Zidane looking him up and down, and was silent, only a quirk of his mouth in response. He drew in closer, and Zidane, practiced as he was with death and lust, couldn’t help an inhale.

 

“Tu aimes ça?” Cristiano whispered, the deep purr of his voice in Zidane’s ear.

 

Zidane could not remember, afterwards, what he had said in response. He said something, low and murmured, but undistinguishable to his ears. Cristiano had responded, by lifting his chin up, and slowly dropping a kiss on Zidane’s forehead. And strangely, he let Cristiano, a press of the mouth that felt oddly grave.

 

“Go home, Bond.” Cristiano murmured in his ear. And then, he stepped back, and he was gone, and he was no longer in the room at all, and the world was once again a terrifying chain of darkness, too many faces, and lights like needles to the eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio was taking a sip of his orange juice when his laptop, finally, finally, finished processing the data.

 

He had no idea why 007 was so fixated on some simple chemical analyses in the first place, but he trusted the mans’ instincts. The man had one of the longest careers in M-16 as a double-oh, and while his missions had a tendency to descend into chaos, his instincts for finding the truth and unraveling the machinations behind the façade was unerring.

 

Sergio’s train of thought was interrupted suddenly by a thick pounding on his door. He froze for only a moment before soundlessly sliding off the bed, pulling out and cocking a handgun, moving behind the wall to wait.

 

He didn’t have to wait long. He heard the click and beep of the door being swiped, and then the sound of it lurching forward as someone walked in, rather unsteadily.

 

Sergio aimed the gun at the intruder, face level, only to find it was Bond walking in.

 

“What the—James, what are you doing? I could have shot you!” Sergio hissed as he quickly checked the hallway before closing the door.

 

Bond didn’t answer, but instead had lurched into the bed, murmuring something.

 

“What are doing? What’s wrong?” Sergio’s mind was instantly running through possibilities, scenarios. “Are you poisoned? I brought a med kit with me…”

 

The agent shook his head. After a moment, he croaked out. “Tell me about the analyses.”

 

“You sure?” Sergio squinted his eyes. “We should get you to Medical. Just as a precaution.”

 

The man growled in response.

 

“What is it with you and your hatred of doctors?” Sergio asked in exasperation.

 

“Had enough of being poked and cut into for a lifetime. No time for quacks. Tell me.” He gritted out.

 

Sergio sighed, and sat down beside him. “I’m still not finished, but I did some initial scans and chem assays. I haven’t sourced all the components yet, but there were some interesting things that came up. The ink’s has some unknown components to it, something unusual. It’s actually still wet, did you notice? Whatever its made of is still liquid, probably some sort of lipid base, but it’s not designed to last beyond another week, I would say. And there were some irregularities to the card structure itself, but I need some more tools to properly take a look…”

 

“Do it. Whatever it takes.” Bond said. And then, adding as if in afterthought.

 

“Let me see.”

 

Sergio picked up the card from the bedside table, and handed it to Bond, who picked it up to hold it up to the light for a second. His thumb brushed over the surface, as if trying to test the ink. After another moment, he sighed, and let his hand fall.

 

“Are you going to be all right?” Sergio asked cautiously.

 

But Zidane was already asleep.

  

* * *

 

 

  

When Zidane woke up in the hotel room, Sergio was tersely speaking to someone over the phone, short bitten out sentences in Russian. When he looked up to see Zidane awake, he shortly said his goodbyes, and turned his phone off.

 

There was a short lull of silence in the room, Zidane and Sergio’s eyes meeting, for a moment too long.

 

“003’s down.” Sergio said, a muscle in his jaw clenching.

 

Zidane was still, not a blink or twitch to the news. “What happened?”

 

“He must have come into contact with the virus when he was sweeping the warehouses. Four of the personnel from Medical are infected too. They didn’t realize he was ill when he came in.”

 

Sergio swallowed, before continuing. “They say he doesn’t have long.”

 

Zidane was still, and yet the lines of his body changed ever so subtly that the agent seemed coiled, tension condensed into a singular focus, on the brink of descending into serene fury. Sergio plunged ahead with his other news, anything to fill the dreadful silence. He knew that 007 and 003 were friends since they first started in M-16 as fresh recruits. At this point, they might have been each others only friend left in the world.

 

“I’ve been talking to my other contacts—there’s been more reports of the virus cropping up, more frequently. Beijing, Singapore, Berlin, New York, and now St. Petersburg. Everyone’s on edge. Pointing fingers, making accusations, preparing for retaliation.”

 

“What did M say?” Zidane asked. His voice was calm and yet something in it still made Sergio want to shudder. Instead, he sighed.

 

“She said to tell 007 to ‘hurry up’.”

 

“To the point as ever.” Zidane said.

 

“She might have expressed herself a little less politely, but that’s the general gist.” Sergio opened his laptop. “What do you need me to do, 007?”

 

Zidane walked over to the bed where Sergio was sitting on, and gently closed the laptop top. “I need you to come with me.”

 

Sergio stared back at Zidane, for a long moment. Finally he spoke. “Is M going to like this?”

 

“No.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Are you feeling better, Bond?” Sergio asked curiously, as they cautiously wended their way through the twisted pomegranate trees, the thorny branches catching at their clothes.

 

“When was I feeling poorly?” Zidane replied, his walk through the grove as silent as a cat. Something was wrong. The front entrance that should have been flooded with light, and crawling with men, was empty and desolate.

 

“Earlier you were acting strangely. Do you not remember? You pounded on the hotel door and almost got shot and then took a power nap for four hours.

 

Zidane shook his head. “My memories of earlier tonight…are strange.”

 

“So…” Sergio said, as they walked up to the entrance. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to go back here? Instead of calling for back up? We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

 

“No.” Zidane replied, testing the handle. It opened with ease, unlocked. “I have a feeling our targets on the move, tonight. We don’t have time to wait, and neither does 003. If anyone has an antidote to the virus, it would be our friend Virgil.”

 

“Something about this whole business is off, Bond.” Sergio frowned. “M didn’t share details with me, but I’ve been keeping tabs with friends at home. Missions are getting canceled left and right, top priority ones too that have been on the table for years. Other agents going dark. Important people going missing. 003 becoming ill is hardly the least of it, apparently. I can’t tell what’s rumor and what’s fact.”

 

“Sergio.” Zidane’s voice had a hint of affection as they stepped inside. “For someone in intelligence, you still don’t know when to be quiet.”

 

 

If Sergio had been irritatingly chatty beforehand, as was his wont when he was shadowing Zidane on missions, he fell completely silent as they moved through the mansion.

 

It had people, a veritable crowd of them earlier in the evening, Zidane was sure of it. But everywhere they walked, the rooms were empty. There were signs that people had been there—champagne flutes on the tables, scuff marks on the floor, toppled over furniture, and in one large area, a tall brocade curtain torn off its place, and draping the floor. But not a person, not a footstep or voice.

 

Suddenly, there was the distinct sound of a muffled bump from upstairs, making them both look up. They looked at each other. Sergio made a motion as if to go upstairs, and Zidane held out his hand.

 

“Keep looking.” Zidane whispered. “Find the antidote.”

 

* * *

 

 

When he wanted to, Zidane could make his way quieter than a shadow.

 

And his care was rewarded.

 

It was clear that he wasn’t expected, or anyone else, really.

 

Because here was the crowd of earlier, strewn across the floor. Hard faced men, rich men, evil men, with the jeweled and feathered beauties interspersed here and there, all still, all dead, blood dried on the nose and mouth.

 

Up ahead, an open room blazed light on the hallway of bodies. Zidane could hear voices. One loud and frightened, wavering with fear. The other calm and low, unworried.

 

He peered in, cautiously.

 

A man was tied to a chair, sweating and wide eyed, straining at his restraints, shaking with the absolute knowledge of impending death.

 

Cristiano stood before him, and Zidane recognized with a start the blush pink gown, the flowers, the heavy diamond choker that glittered like snow. He hadn’t been certain he hadn’t dreamed Cristiano somehow.  
  
And yet one thing was different, from the man he had seen earlier, who had pressed a kiss to his forehead. Cristiano was wearing a dark red lipstick.

 

“Don’t do this!” The man begged, as Cristiano took a step forward. “Please! I’m not supposed to die with the others!”

 

“Oh, love.” Cristiano sighed. “You might be immune for now, but Virgil doesn’t make mistakes. He sent me to take care of you.”

 

The man could only heave, faster and faster, as Cristiano walked up to him, and then, lightly, sat on the man’s lap, crossing his legs, fitting himself in the space between the captives legs.

 

“I’ve heard you’re a bad man.” Cristiano’s voice took on a velvet huskiness, so familiar, and yet raising all of the hair on Zidane’s neck. “I heard you killed a lot of people. You had them murdered, than took their land and the mineral rights with it. You made your workers suffer. Many starved while you fattened on their misery.”

 

The man began to gasp, as Cristiano lightly trailed a finger down his cheek, the other hand firmly grasping the man’s chin.

 

“You bitch.” The man spat, shaking. “You fucking faggot, you’re going to burn in hell—“

 

“Oh daddy.” Cristiano said, his lips in a mocking pout, but his eyes remote. “But we’re already in hell.”

 

And with that, Cristiano dug his nails into the man’s face, holding him still as he tried to scream, as Cristiano kissed him, a rough moment of tongue and teeth, Cristiano nipping hard at the man’s lip before tracing his mouth over the bite.

 

Zidane noticed that Cristiano kept his eyes open, the whole time.

 

“Are you finished yet?” Another voice spoke irritably, and a figure walked forward from the dark corner of the room, and revealed itself to be the jewel-eyed man of earlier.

 

“I am now.” Cristiano replied, his face settling back into a smooth mask, wiping his mouth and standing up. The man tied to the chair was starting to arch in the chair, his eyes now staring at the ceiling, his face turning dark red. “There was no need for you to wait. There’s plenty to do around here.”

 

“Wouldn’t want to miss the spectacle of you acting like a whore.” His voice had an unmistakable twinge of jealousy. “Rubbing your body all over men like you’re desperate to get fucked. Everyone wonders if you ever spread your legs for them too or if you’re just a little cocktease.”

 

In a smooth motion that was nearly a blur, Cristiano lifted the hem of his gown, and pulled a knife free from underneath, an elegant sweep of the arm. The man in the chair gave one last great choke as the blood splattered from the gash on his neck, and went limp.

 

Cristiano turned to the jewel eyed man who had startled at the motion, his face and dress flecked with drops of red. He stared down the other man as he spoke.

 

“Not everyone finds something nice between my legs. Especially if they don’t respect me. Especially if all they do is follow me with their eyes while saying crude things about me. Do you understand?”

 

The jewel eyed man slowly nodded, one short grudging movement of his head.

 

“Good, Gerard.” Cristiano never blinked as he slowly lifted the hem of his nightgown again, exposing the long line of his hipbone and thigh, as he placed the knife back on the strap around his upper leg. “I don’t wish to have this talk again.”

 

And with that, Cristiano strode out of the room, through an adjoining door.

  
A short pause of a minute, Gerard staring at the closed door Cristiano had just passed through, his chest heaving. And then, with a roar, he lifted up the dead body of the man, chair and all, and heaved it easily at the door. The chair snapped, and the body crumpled on the floor like a doll.

 

Zidane had his perfect moment. He could have taken out the stupid one with a single shot, never mind his strength. But then Sergio’s voice crackled in his ear, breathy and fast, as if in shock.

 

“007. Come downstairs, to the basement. You want to see this.”

 

And the stupid one, done with his tantrum, had roughly opened the door and followed after Cristiano, and it was too late to have an easy takedown, and Zidane wasn’t here to take out petty muscle, he was here for 003,

 

and so he let the moment go.

 

* * *

  

And when Zidane saw what Sergio had called him down for, all thoughts of what he had seen upstairs was wiped from his mind.

 

For a moment, he couldn’t quite take in what he was seeing. Blue tanks, lit up with a ghostly blue glow, the florescence of lights against what was inside—what looked like water, and dim shapes within.

 

Except those dim shapes coalesced into the blurry, soft, undulation of hair, and then from there the eye could make out faces, arms, hands, the many, many bodies floating in the perfect silence of the surprisingly vast space cut into the rock of the earth underneath the foundation itself.

 

“It’s like a river of the dead.” Sergio said, softly.

 

And so they were. Zidane could recognize the general look of them. They were the men and women of last night, still in their expensive suits, dresses, jewelry. He watched a single delicate ostrich feather furl and unfurl in the water, drifting aimlessly.

 

“They’re taking the bodies with them.” Sergio said. “This is probably how they’re getting the virus through surveillance, through international borders. This is how Virgil is testing and developing his virus so quickly. He probably has to keep the bodies in some sort of suspension to inactivate the virus somehow—”

 

“Did you find an antidote?” Zidane cut in brusquely.

 

“Yes, actually.” Sergio lifted a vial of liquid, dark colored in the gloom, before handing it to Zidane. “Neatly labeled and everything. Probably keeps it on hand in case his own people get infected.”

 

“How neat.” Zidane murmured, tucking it away in his breastpocket. “Almost rather stupid of him.”

 

“Not as stupid as you two fucks.” An unfamiliar voice rang out.

 

Zidane working by instinct, shoved Sergio down and away, rolling on the floor, the sound of bullets chasing after them.

 

“Split up!” Zidane hissed in Sergio’s ear, and quickly got to his feet, making a zigzag pattern through the tanks.

 

A man suddenly leapt out in front of him from between the tanks, and Zidane didn’t hesitate, roughly pulling the mans arm, kneeing him in the face, and then sweeping his leg to let his skull crack hard on the stone floor.

 

His own gun out, Zidane scanned the upper railings above his head for whoever was shooting at them. All he could see past the fluorescent blue surrounding him was darkness, and Zidane spat out a curse.

 

Another shot rang out, and this time, it grazed Zidane’s calf. He hardly felt the burn of it as he rolled, between a narrow space between tank and stone wall.

 

“Sergio!” He shouted, hoping his earpiece hadn’t been wrecked.

 

A brief silence, and then—

 

the sound of a pistol report, and a man shouted, distantly from above, and Zidane watched his dark form fall loose from the ceiling, and fall into one of the tanks.

 

“Got him.” Sergio reported cheerfully. “Good to have a pair of young eyes with you on missions, old man?”

 

Zidane smiled at the sound of his voice. “Insolent pup.”

  
Zidane hid his limp as he gingerly inched out of his space. The earpiece crackled as Sergio spoke. “I think that’s all of them—“

 

A sudden burst of static, and the sound of a roar, as well as the loud thump of something hitting the ground hard. Sergio was swearing and shouting before the earpiece went silent.

 

Zidane loped down the open ways, towards the sound of the commotion, a couple hundred feet away. He could hear the sound of another shot, glass shattering, followed by another roar.

 

And he found himself in the right hallway where Sergio was, wrestling the bodyguard from earlier, water pooling around their feet as they desperately slid and fought to reach an abandoned gun on the ground.

 

Sergio was clearly outmatched by the man in strength, but was using every trick up his sleeve to stay clear of the man’s blows.

 

Zidane swiftly lifted his own gun to aim—

 

but a twitch of instinct and he ducked, and the knife barely missed his neck, but Cristiano didn’t hesitate, kicking him backwards, slamming him hard against a tank, the force of it nearly jarring him dizzy, except his own instincts had fully taken over and now him and Cristiano were neatly exchanging blows—Cristiano was good, he was more than good, he was _trained_ —

 

Sergio screamed in pain, and Zidane’s head snapped for a second to look, and the bodyguard had sunk a shard of glass into his shoulder, the bad one, and Sergio was trying to gain back his equilibrium, except his opponent had taken advantage to grab at Sergio’s arm, and in a neat movement, snapped the upper arm, the sound of it reverberating in the air.

 

And Cristiano took advantage of his distraction, landed a solid kick into his chest, and knocking Zidane on the ground. He instantly tried to get back up, but Cristiano read him, wrapping his thighs around his neck, the weight of him forcing Zidane on the ground, cutting off his air.

 

As Zidane tried to buck Cristiano off, Cristiano watched his weakening struggles, no expression to be read on his face. Zidane gripped Cristiano’s thigh, a futile attempt to pry him off, to no avail.

 

Distantly, he heard the sound of a gun trigger being pulled, but with no round discharged, followed by the sound of the ugly cursing of the bodyguard. Sergio was ominously silent.

 

“Not him.” Zidane gasped. “Not him, not like this. Don’t make him suffer.”

 

There was a microtwitch of Cristiano’s face, just barely there, and then smoothing out.

 

Cristiano spoke, a few short words, before Zidane drifted into the darkness.

 

“And you thought you could save me?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Zidane didn’t expect to wake up again.

 

But there was sunlight in his bleary eyes, and a gentle wind, that was making the lace curtains at the window dance, an aimless, ghostly movement.

 

And as Zidane focused on the pattern of the lace, cunning concentric webs in clusters, interspersed with netted roses, he became more aware of his surroundings.

 

For one, he was in an unfamiliar bed, underneath a soft white duvet, the softness of the fabric gentle against his bruised, battered body.

 

Secondly, his wrists was tied to the bedframe.

 

They weren’t cruelly tight, or unnecessarily rough. But Zidane could tell, testing his bonds, that whoever had tied them had known what he was doing. There would be no inching himself free.

 

“Having fun?” A voice spoke quietly.

 

Cristiano was seated in a chair at the foot of the bed, a book in hand, resting on his lap. For once, Cristiano was dressed sedately, a pair of black slacks, along with a soft dove grey button up shirt.

 

A slightly sharper wind than before gusted through the window, and Cristiano shivered slightly as he stood up and walked towards the window to shut it closed. As he bent over to latch it shut, Zidane could see his nipples, hardening through the thin shirt material from the cold.

 

Cristiano sat down by the bedside, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other.

 

“I should be dead by now.” Zidane rasped.

 

“You should.” Cristiano acknowledged.

 

“Why am I not?”

 

Cristiano tilted his head slightly. “Because I didn’t want you to.”

 

Zidane didn’t react to his words. “Where’s Sergio?”

 

“Gerard took him to our boss. Took some convincing not to let him kill him. When the man’s angry enough, he likes to tear people from limb to limb.” Cristiano shrugged. “To him it’s like pulling wings off a fly.”

 

“Why am I not meeting Virgil?”

 

Cristiano smiled, but it was a chilly one. “Because he thinks you’re dead. And I need some information from you.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

But that was all Cristiano said. He stood up from the bedside, and walked over to another table by the doorway, and Zidane noticed the tray of food on it. Cristiano picked it up, and took it by the bed again.

 

“You’ll need to eat. Your body needs to heal.” Cristiano murmured, as he began to ready the tray, taking off the plate cover, revealing a fairly bland meal of porridge and toast.

 

“Any chance of you untying me?” Zidane smiled.

 

“Not a one.” Cristiano quirked a smile back, a shadow of amusement crossing his face. “I hope it won’t hurt your pride if I feed you.”

 

“One day you’re suffocating me with your thighs, the next you’re spooning me soup. I must say, I find your intentions towards me…rather dizzying.” Zidane said, accepting the first spoonful of porridge. Cristiano took care not to let the spoon click unpleasantly against his teeth, a gentle, precise movement.

 

“Ah well. Every relationship is bound to have its ups and downs.” Cristiano offered Zidane a bite of toast.

 

“Rather backwards for one, isn’t it? Not even a proper kiss from you. Though I believe many people have not enjoyed yours.”

 

“So you saw.” Cristiano abruptly withdrew the buttered slice before Zidane could bite into it, and instead began to tear off pieces from it and swallowing them. “It was not very nice of you to peek where you’re not wanted.”

 

“It’s a bad habit. May I have a bite of that toast?”

 

“Certainly not.” Cristiano pouted, licking the butter from his thumb. “Now the element of surprise is gone. No affair can last when that happens.”

 

“I very much doubt I’ve even come close to discovering most of your secrets.” Zidane mused, watching the tip of Cristiano’s pink tongue delicately laving his thumb tip. “For one. You’re not a civilian.”

 

“I am one now…of a sort.” Cristiano said. “My past does not matter now.”

 

“Why do you work for Virgil?”

 

Cristiano shrugged. “Why do you work for M-16 when you’re French?”

 

Zidane’s gaze turned steely, and Cristiano shook his head. “Now, now, don’t be upset. I don’t know anything about you, Bond, but I do know that your accent is not one belonging to a native speaker. It’s very slight, but your vowels are too flat for that.”

 

There was a silence in the room for a minute, while Cristiano took a couple pensive sips of Zidane’s orange juice.

 

“Let’s agree then. Certain subjects will be off limits. Will that be acceptable?” Zidane said, his eyes never leaving Cristiano.

 

“That will be acceptable.” Cristiano offered Zidane another spoonful of porridge. “Will you take a bite as apology?”

 

“I’d rather have you for an apology.” Zidane took the proffered spoon. “Or salt and pepper with this porridge.”

 

“Ah, well. I can offer one of those.” And Cristiano tore into a tiny white packet.

 

* * *

 

 

“Leaving so soon?” Zidane asked, as Cristiano strode past him, looking for his earrings.

 

“Despite what you think, I do have other business to finish while I’m here.” Cristiano murmured. “Have you seen my studs anywhere, by any chance?”

 

Zidane had spent much of the day sleeping, drowsing under the influence of pain meds and the come down exhaustion of yesterdays adrenaline rush. He knew that for whatever reason, Cristiano was keeping him alive, and for the moment, he was unlikely to work himself free. He couldn’t pin down where exactly he was being held, other than a nondescript hotel room, in a major inland city not far from where he had been last night. Cristiano had opened the window again, and now the bustle and sounds of the evening were encroaching, the cool twilight air bringing with it the excited pitch of crowds filling the outdoor tables for dinner, pleasure seekers strolling through the city, the endless roar of cars through the streets punctuated now and then with the whine of a motorbike.

 

“I have not.” Zidane replied. “But what business requires you to wear that?”

 

Cristiano had shed the well cut, if rather drab clothes of earlier, and was now in what Zidane considered his usual sort of garb—a black silk set of panties decorated with tiny red embroidered roses at the hip, along with the garter belt, attached to a pair of stockings that rasped maddeningly as Cristiano walked. He was delicately stepping into his dress for tonight, a gauzy black lace minidress that hugged his every edge and curve, the long sleeves subtly emphasizing his delicate wrists, and the high lace inset turtleneck coyly playing at virginal shyness, but the hem of the dress cut just below the curve of Cristiano’s ass stating otherwise.

 

Cristiano laughed, shimmying himself into the dress, and carefully zipping it up through the side, a spark of lust in Zidane’s belly watching the sweet curve of Cristiano’s jutted hip.

 

“Nothing that involves you.” Cristiano teased, stepping into his high heels.

 

Zidane sighed. “You wound me, Cristiano. You could make a saint fall, dressed like that.”

 

“Oh, certainly men are going to fall for me. That’s a given.” Cristiano hummed in irritation. “Now if I can’t find my earrings….”

 

“You must have other jewelry on hand.”

 

“Yes, but nothing to suit the dress.” Cristiano’s forehead furrowed. “Oh! I almost forgot.” He walked out of the room into the adjoining one, where Zidane surmised all his things were.

 

“When are you going to ask me for what you want?” Zidane mused. “You’ve tied these ropes admirably, but I must admit my arms are starting to fall asleep.”

 

“When my work is done. I need to confirm some things, first.” Cristiano’s voice called out from the other room. “There! Now tell me truly what you think.”

 

Zidane only gave a cursory glance at Cristiano at first, thinking that jewels could only add so little brilliance to a man who was already exquisitely lovely.

 

He was utterly wrong.

 

Cristiano wasn’t wearing earrings or necklaces, or rings. Rather his nipples were studded with diamond piercings, and they glittered underneath the barely-there lace of the dress. To add insult to injury, the delicate piercings fluttered and swayed with every step Cristiano took in those tall heels, as he walked over to Zidane with a little smirk, taking a spin in front of the bedside, revealing the revealing cut of his panties, clearly visible under the dress.

 

“Well?” Cristiano asked archly.

 

“You’re a cruel man, Cristiano.” Zidane coolly replied.

 

Cristiano pouted. “Is that all you can say? That’s not much of a compliment.”

 

“Untie my hands and you’ll see how much I can flatter your vanity.”

 

Cristiano huffed. “If this is the extent of your flattery, I might as well solicit the opinion of the construction workers down the street.”

 

“I do not think that experiment should be tried on any man who is not in my position.” Zidane flexed his hands.

 

“You needn’t worry.” Cristiano replied, showing Zidane a flash of steel in his wrist, before retracting it back into the opaque black lace hem of his sleeve. “I can take care of myself.”

 

Zidane gestured with his chin at the table. “Before you go, at least pour me a glass of the wine you ordered.”

 

“Oh!” Cristiano’s eyes widened. “I nearly forgot.”

 

Taking the wine opener that came with the bottle, Cristiano expertly worked the cork out. With an expert hand, he poured out a small measure in a glass, and then took it by the stem, offering it to Zidane’s mouth.

 

“Now behave yourself, Bond.” Cristiano admonished gently.

 

* * *

 

 

Zidane was steadily working at his bonds, patiently cutting himself loose with the wine opener when his earpiece crackled back into life.

 

“Bond?” The voice on the line sounded weary, and rough with pain.

 

Zidane stopped his motion for a moment. “Sergio. Are you all right?”

 

“Yes…sort of. My arm is fucked up to shit, and I’m on a boat which means I’m getting bumped every ten seconds, but otherwise I’m alive. More than I expected to be.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Can’t say. I don’t think I’m far from where we were, the vessel I’m in isn’t for open ocean. I’m in the hold of it, with the other bodies. Not a lot of fun. Kind of spooky, really.”

 

“Do you think you’re infected?”

 

“No…I don’t think so. Not coughing or feverish or bleeding. Also the fucker who broke my arm said that his boss wanted to see me. Don’t think they’d do that if all they wanted was to chop me up and use me as a biohazard.”

 

Zidane exhaled, a knot in his chest a little looser. “Tell me what you know.”

 

“Not much more than you, I think. I passed out, and then when I woke up, the arm breaker smacked me around a little, asking me who I was and who I was with. Then he got a call, and he was nicer to me after that, only threatened me with dismemberment twice. Threw me into the hold, and that’s all I know. Managed to fix my earpiece, glad to know you’re still breathing. Cristiano doesn’t usually leave his targets alive.”

 

Zidane froze. The sound of the rope snapping its frayed threads echoed in the room.

 

“How do you know who he is?”

 

“Cris? Me and him used to run into each other all the time when I was just a low ranking field agent. I think he was associated with the Americans. I hit on him on one of my first missions and he gave me two shiners for it.”

 

“So he _was_ on the field.”

 

“One of the best.” Sergio replied. “We used to work together every now and then. He had a lot of tricks up his sleeve—he used to really like his poison lipsticks. Easy to sneak past security with it.”

 

“Why did he leave?” Zidane asked, slowly, painfully, finally prying his hands loose from the bedframe.

 

“He had a friend, a colleague. She and him had a short fling. But she got pregnant with his kid, but didn’t tell him. When she died in the field, he left the CIA so he could take care of it.”

 

Zidane blinked.

 

“007?”

 

“Still here.” Zidane said. “Now, how do I find you?”

 

“Unlike you, I actually take care of my tech. There’s a radio transmitter on me that can track my location. You should be able to access it yourself. And report to M. She’s probably going to gut us when we get home but no need to make her angrier by not letting her know we’re still alive.”

 

“I wouldn’t bother.” A voice spoke out from the doorway.

 

Cristiano was standing there—how long had he been there, hidden in the darkness of the entryway?—his expression blank. He was holding up to his ear another earpiece, different in design from their own standard issued models.

 

“M-16 usually leave their tech scattered after their missions, like trash. It’s terribly easy to retrieve them and reverse engineer them.” Cristiano said silkily, taking a silent, sinuous step forward.

 

Zidane stood up, his posture loose limbed and easy to the eye, but his hands were in his pockets, and his eyes never left Cristiano. “I see. How careless. I will be sure to let the proper authorities know.”

 

“ _Shit_.” Sergio breathed in his air. “007, you need to get out of there, you don’t know how dangerous Cris is—“

 

Cristiano pressed down with his thumb on the earpiece, and the frequency shrieked in Zidane’s ear, then cut off. “Like I said. A waste of energy. By this time, Virgil’s already infiltrated M-16. I doubt the current M is even still alive.”

 

A twitch of Zidane’s eyelid, then stillness. The only sound was of the lace curtain, snapping fitfully.

 

“Virgil made a deal with one of them, you see. He would make sure to wipe out all of their problems, all of their targets. All their problems that they just couldn’t solve. So easily, like a snap of God’s fingers. And for that, he only asked that they look the other way while he set the world on fire.” Cristiano took another couple of steps forward, into the brighter light of the room, revealing the soft sway of his diamonds, as well as the ruby red shine of his mouth in lipstick.

 

“Yet here I am.” Zidane smiled, with all his teeth.

 

“Yes, well. Your M was rather suspicious, and in the end, pushed her nose where it didn’t belong. All in the past now.” A flash of silver, as Cristiano effortlessly unfurled a wicked serrated knife from his wrist.

 

“Interesting that you bring up the past.” Zidane said, starting to walk a tense, slow circle on the floor, with Cristiano mirroring his movements. “Curious, how you ended up working for the Americans, to here.”

 

Cristiano’s eyes flashed. “Is it?”

 

“Yes.” Zidane said. “How does a family man living in the suburbs…end up working with a man and his people whom he does not even trust?”

 

Cristiano did not reply.

 

“Is it that they offered you what you couldn’t refuse?”

 

Another step, except the circle was tightening, the distance between them narrowing.

 

“Was it your lover?”

 

One step.

 

“Your child?”

 

Second step.

 

“A daughter?”

 

A third.

 

“A son?”

 

In the blink of an eye, Cristiano lunged, throwing his knife, the blade of it barely missing Zidane’s eye as he ducked. And then a second knife, and Cristiano was slashing at Zidane’s face, and this time it nearly struck home, and Zidane cheek burned but there was no time, just a furious onslaught to be parried, to strike back at—

 

A sweep of the foot, and Zidane found himself backwards on the bed, as Cristiano took the advantage and loomed over him, and it would have been the end of him if he hadn’t grasped the wine opener, thrusting upwards to score Cristiano’s abdomen, making him gasp and instinctively grab at Zidane’s hand, except now Zidane could flip Cristiano over, and in the roll grab at his hands—

 

And Zidane and Cristiano were panting, Cristiano underneath him struggling like a wildcat, but Zidane’s cruel one handed grip on Cristiano’s wrists meant he was trapped underneath. Zidane pressed Cristiano’s knife to the struggling man’s neck, and he stilled, a caught beast.

 

“That’s twice you’ve nearly killed me.” Zidane snarled.

 

Cristiano spat at Zidane. “Fuck you. _Fuck you_. You’ve good as killed him.” And Cristiano tried to force himself on the knife, except Zidane withdrew the edge just in time. A thin line of red remained on Cristiano’s neck, which oozed drops of blood.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You should have never asked about my past. You should have never known about him.”

 

“Is he in danger?”

 

Cristiano laughed, an ugly dark sound. “Virgil has him. Him and his M-16 ally. They promised if I completed my mission, he would be safe. But you. I thought maybe, just maybe you could be trusted. That maybe—“

 

“Maybe?”

 

“The more people who know about him, the more danger he will always be in.” Cristiano closed his eyes, as if in pain. “I know I will not survive this mission. I know Virgil will dispose of me after. But if someone—someone high up enough at M-16—could help me…I could have him back. We could go somewhere safe and quiet. He could have at least one of his parents.”

 

Cristiano’s body heaved against his. Zidane was suddenly aware of how Cristiano’s legs were spread open against his hips, the heat of his body hot against the belly of Zidane’s button up shirt, the glimmer of his piercings underneath his lace dress, the slow drops of Cristianos’ blood staining the white sheets underneath them.

 

“A deal then.” Zidane said.

 

Cristiano opened his eyes, something wild and furious as a storm in the light of them.

 

“What do you want?” Cristiano asked.

 

Zidane didn’t answer. But the knife that had been resting on the sheets near Cristiano’s shoulder lifted, and the tip just barely grazing Cristiano’s skin. Softly, ever so softly, the tip slid down Cristiano’s body, the silken sound of its tearing as it just barely parted the fabric of Cristiano’s dress, past his collarbones, down past the glint of the exquisite diamonds, and following the hollows of Cristiano’s belly, finally tugging free at the hem that had rucked up to Cristiano’s waist. With that last flick, the dress was no more than mere gossamer painting his skin, and Cristiano lay exposed from nipple to panties, his chest heaving, possessed of some strong emotion that did not show on Cristiano’s face.

 

“What if I say no?” Cristiano spoke, finally.

 

“Then we stop.” Zidane replied. “And we part.”

 

Cristiano bit his lip, teeth worrying at those plush red lips, a flicker of a childish habit, a flash of helplessness that set Zidane’s blood on fire, made him want to take, to kiss Cristiano until he was dizzy with it, to play with those piercings until Cristiano cried from it, to fuck him until he could clear this lust from his bones, until he could stop craving the itch.

 

But Zidane remained still as stone, still gripping onto Cristiano’s wrists, simply waiting for an answer, and if it was no, then he would do it even though his body was burning for Cristiano, for the cunning way he was made, for the warmth of his bare skin against his, for the sounds he could make in his pleasure.

 

But after what seemed like an eternity, Cristiano took a shuddering breath, and in a fluid motion, wrapped his legs around Zidane’s waist.

 

And Zidane, finally granted his permission, took the knife, and with a brutal motion, cut the straps of Cristiano’s garters free. Cristiano gasped, the vise grip of his thighs tightening into iron for a moment. Zidane plunged the knife down to the hilt into the mattress, and leaned close to Cristiano’s ear, taking a dizzying inhale of his faint jasmine perfume and his warmed skin, like sunlight, like honey.

 

Letting go of Cristiano’s wrists, he indulged himself in running his hand through Cristiano’s hair, holding him in place as he bit a hard kiss into Cristiano’s neck, desperate to mark him, to make him his. He felt Cristiano lean his head back, to let him.

 

Moving his hands downwards, still using his weight to pin Cristiano down to the mattress as he bit more kisses on his neck, he took hold of Cristiano’s panties, the silken flutter of the tiny roses against his callused fingers. With a single swift twist, he tore them, a ruin of silk and lace, fluttering uselessly in his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Cristiano moaned, loudly and without inhibition, as Zidane finger’s thrust in him, three fingers opening his body up, teasing him with steady friction against the spot inside him where Cristiano body went sweet and limp, while Zidane mouthed at his nipples, finding endless delight in how the piercings rolled in his mouth, the tight buds always hardened and sensitive to his every touch, the way Cristiano would sigh with the mere brush of his teeth, and bite off a sharp keen with a hard nip.

 

“You’re exquisite.” Zidane murmured, the deep vibration of his voice eliciting what sounded close to a choked off moan in Cristiano’s throat. “You utterly, utterly gorgeous thing.”

 

Cristiano shook his head, his eyes blown open and dark as he looked at Zidane. “And you said you weren’t a flatterer.”

 

“I only speak the truth.” Zidane caught the diamonds in his teeth, and pulled, and Cristiano arched nearly off the bed in a gasp.

 

“A silver tongued devil, you are.” Cristiano sighed, reaching out his hand to caress the back of Zidane’s head. “But are you only going to shower me with words? Or are you a man of action as well?”

 

In response, Zidane withdrew his fingers, leaned back, and turned Cristiano over on his belly, Cristiano giving a sharp yelp of surprise.

 

Now as he lifted Cristiano on his hands and knees, fitting his hips flush against Cristiano’s ass, he could hear Cristiano murmur a fervent “ _Fuck,_ daddy.”

 

Zidane gently brushed a loose strand of curl back behind Cristiano’s ear, and nudged Cristiano’s legs open.

 

“As you wish.”

 

And in one, tight, wet slide, Zidane forced himself inside Cristiano, impaling him down to the very root.

 

Cristiano cried out, a sharp high sound, but he was utterly caught now, at Zidane’s mercy, and Zidane had none for him, taking him far too fast and rough, a series of thrusts that were hard enough to leave bruises, with every thrust bottoming out with a cry torn from Cristiano, muffled into the mattress.

 

Cristiano was shuddering underneath him, the friction far too much for him to bear, too much sensation hurtling into oversensitivity, Cristiano finally biting the pillow to quiet his cries.

 

But when Zidane wordlessly reached up, feeling for Cristiano’s piercings, finding it and winding the chain around his fingers before giving it a brutal tug, Cristiano’s body clenched around Zidane’s cock for an instant as he was pulling out, Cristiano’s body suddenly desperate, and now Cristiano was no longer crying out in distress, but moaning, as Zidane used his body hard, fucking him while playing roughly with the piercings, Cristiano’s body no longer narrow and tight against the invasion of his cock, but open and loose, unable and unwilling to resist against Zidane, and so Zidane took the unsaid invitation of Cristiano’s body, turning Cristiano over roughly on his back. Cristiano’s eyes was wet with tears, but he reached desperately for Zidane, his arms enfolding around his neck, Cristiano burying his face into the crook of his neck.

 

“Daddy, _please._ Just use me, fuck me, fill me up until I cant breathe, until I’m so crammed full with you—“

 

and Zidane obeyed, and as Cristiano’s fingers dug into his back, he thrust into Cristiano, hard enough to make the bed frame hit the wall each time, wrecking Cristiano, making him _his—_

 

and Cristiano arched, his body a sudden hot silken clench that almost bordered on pain for a second, his chest painted with his own drops of come, lovely white pearls to complement his sparkling diamonds, nipples still tight, Cristiano keening as Zidane kept fucking him through his peak, his body helplessly surrendering to Zidane as his cock thrust deep in that volcanic wet heat.

 

As Cristiano’s peak began to spend, and slipped into oversensitivity instead, Cristiano’s moans began to turn into gritted whimpers, Zidane’s cock slowing, Zidane about to pull out when Cristiano suddenly wrapped his legs around Zidane’s waist, trapping him between them.

 

“Don’t stop.” Cristiano hissed. “Don’t you dare. I want you to come in me. I want you to ruin me.”

 

Zidane nearly forgot, but at the last moment he remembered, pressing a kiss just on the side of Cristiano’s mouth, avoiding the trembling scarlet mouth.

 

“Shhh, it’s all right.” Zidane soothed. “You’re doing so well, kitten. You’re so good for me.”

 

And with that, Zidane, holding Cristiano’s wrists down, sped up his pace again, ignoring Cristiano’s loud, bitten off cries, the way he struggled to free himself, his body trying to escape from Zidane, but Zidane had him pinned to the bed, and with little trouble, kept ruthlessly thrusting inside Cristiano.

 

With time, Zidane could feel how Cristiano once again grew still and pliant under him, once again opened up under his assault and let him have everything, when Cristiano began to feel pleasure again, gasping and dark eyed, while Zidane forced him until Cristiano’s body tremblingly unfolded for him—

 

Cristiano’s second peak was less forceful than before, but no less lovely, this time splattering over his black stockings, quite ruining them. Cristiano only silently gasping for air while Zidane continued entering him with short, brutal thrusts. Far sooner, he began to twist, and cry, with real urgency, real distress as once again his peak melted away, into too much.

 

Except now Zidane was so close, and it was only a matter of snarling “ _Be still_.” while he gripped Cristiano’s wrists hard enough to bruise, and Cristiano could only gasp, and obey, trembling from head to foot, biting his lip hard enough to bleed, but boneless and docile, a beautiful perfect fucktoy to be despoiled, to be fucked and filled and taken, because it was _his_ —

And Zidane’s peak finally came, a roiling wave that bowled him over, as he shouted, spilling endlessly into Cristiano, who fucked open as he was, could only tremble and twitch around his cock as he let him.

 

As they both caught their breath, their blood hammering in their ears, the starry wind from the open window soothed their heated bodies, the light gibbous moon outside casting pale webs of intricate shapes on the sheets and on their skin.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief mention of off screen noncon

When Zidane silently entered the room, Cristiano was lazily beginning to stir in bed, the morning light warming the room.

 

In the light of the morning, the dark haired man had the unmistakable look of being well fucked. His usual immaculate hair was now a tousle of curls, dark love bites bruising his neck and shoulders. Eyes closed, Cristiano languorously stretched his body. Zidane’s breath caught at the sight of his body, a long lewd line of sun dappled skin, before relaxing and curling on his side.

 

Zidane could have stayed in the entryway and looked his fill, but Cristiano’s voice floated out, despite his back to Zidane.

 

“Good morning to you. Where did you go off to?”

 

Zidane stepped forward, carrying a neat stiff box. “Picked up breakfast from a bakery down the street. Thought it’d be a pleasant change from hotel fare.”

 

“Mm, how thoughtful.” Cristiano didn’t turn to face Zidane, but lazily raised a hand out in the air, beckoning for him. “Can you bring it over? I don’t believe I can stand right now.”

 

“Liar.” Zidane smiled, but walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re just being lazy.”

 

Cristiano turned over and batted his eyelashes innocently. “Ask anyone. Yesterday a brute held me captive and used my body all night.”

  
“No need to exaggerate.” Yet Zidane leaned over, bracing an arm against the soft coverlets, pressing a kiss against the corner of Cristiano’s mouth. Cristiano hummed, and turned to meet Zidane’s kiss more fully.

 

When they broke apart, Cristiano took one look at Zidane’s raised eyebrow and huffed. “Don’t look like that. The lipstick’s only poisonous for so long in open air. You could have had my mouth anytime this morning.”

 

Zidane smiled, and passed along the box. As Cristiano pulled out a puff pastry, he replied. “Who’s to say I will not?”

 

Cristiano took a bite and hummed in contentment. “At least let me eat first, you beast. Sex takes energy.”

 

“I should have you work for your meal. See how talented you are with your mouth.”

 

“Would you now?” Cristiano pretended to haughtily turn away, but settled more securely on his belly, balanced on his elbows while lazily swinging his feet in the air. One arm lifted in a lazy movement to hide his nipples, still glittering with the diamonds. “What ever is a nice boy to do, when a bad man threatens his virtue?”

 

Zidane hummed with amusement. Lifting a hand, he traced with a slow fingertip the line of Cristiano’s spine, from the nape of his neck, down to the downy skin of his lower back, and then up the plush curve of Cristiano’s ass. He could hear an intake of breath, a soft sound that caught in Cristiano’s throat as Zidane began to lazily grope, cupping and squeezing handfuls of soft flesh.

 

“A nice boy might find another way to fill his belly.” Zidane whispered in Cristiano’s ear.

 

Cristiano’s eyes were dark when he smiled wickedly up at Zidane, the hand that had been shielding his chest instead drifting down to slowly roll a piercing between his fingers. But before Zidane could lean in closer for another kiss, Cristiano slowly took another languorous bite, his eyes meeting Zidane’s the whole time. “Too bad for you I am not a nice boy.”

 

Zidane shook his head sadly, and in a quick movement, spanked Cristiano on the ass, a hard smack that made Cristiano gasp and drop his pastry.

 

“It is too bad for you I am not a nice man.” Zidane rolled Cristiano on his back and got on top of him, Cristiano’s laughter in his ears.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You needn’t lie.” Cristiano panted to Zidane, after it was over, their bodies rolling apart from one another, the sweat cooling on their skin in the warming mid morning air. “I know you did not leave the hotel simply to visit the local bakeries.”

 

Zidane hummed, his eyes meeting Cristiano’s. “The less you know, the better it may be for you after. M-16 will be more likely to leave you alone if they think you’re ignorant of their network.”

 

“Nevertheless.” Cristiano replied, his chest still heaving. “We need to trust each other for this, to a certain degree. I need to trust you.”

 

“I’ve come in you twice now, doesn’t that count for something?” Zidane smiled.

 

“Certainly not.” Cristiano closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“You talk of trust.” Zidane grit out, as he thrust inside him, his cock spearing a whimpering Cristiano who was helplessly fluttering around the intrusion, pinned against the wall while Zidane held him up effortlessly. “Tell me this—how does your poison work? Lipstick would seem too dangerous a choice for anyone.”

 

Cristiano moaned, clinging for dear life, but still managed to choke out. “It’s a neurotoxin—if I take certain drugs beforehand it doesn’t affect me—takes half the damn day of prep though—“

 

“Still, in cosmetic form? Seems like an unnecessary risk. Why not stick to guns?”

 

“Because—“ Cristiano yelped with an especially deep thrust inside of him, “Because sometimes you don’t have the strength to hold a gun. Learned that—oh!—Learned that with my very first mission…when the bodyguard of a target drugged me and dragged me into his car to have his way with me….and I had never been with a man before….”

 

Zidane didn’t say a word, and Cristiano kept moaning, his arms wound tight around Zidane’s shoulders.

 

“So I learned…it’s better…to have a back up plan…so that if I was ever caught off guard…I would not be defenseless…”

 

Cristiano was getting close, Zidane could tell, Cristiano’s cries becoming more desperate, his head tipping back against the whole to expose the beautiful line of his bare neck.

 

“What happened to that bodyguard?” Zidane growled.

 

“I hunted him down, months later…pretended to let him drug me again…and when he kissed me this time, laughing about how easy I was….I was ready…and I watched him die….soaked in his own blood….”

 

With that, Zidane bit down on Cristiano’s adam’s apple, and Cristiano with a gasp, surrendered beautifully.

 

* * *

 

 

“Your turn.” Cristiano murmured as Zidane turned on the hot water faucet.

 

Cristiano was sleepily drifting in the warm water of the tub, head tipped back against the rim while Zidane from behind gently carded his fingers through his hair, working shampoo into a lather.

 

“My turn?” Zidane queried.

 

“It’s your turn to tell me something.” Cristiano said.

 

“I did not realize this was an exchange.”

 

Cristiano sighed. “Oh, don’t be like that. I’ll even ask you a question. How did you meet M?”

 

Zidane only tensed his jaw, and kept massaging Cristiano’s temples, his touch still as gentle and thorough. Cristiano sighed. “James, please, give me some credit. The CIA has known for decades that M always cherrypicks the double-ohs. No one enters the program without her express approval. So you must have made an impression on her, sometime, somewhere.”

 

There was the sound of silence for a long minute, as Zidane carefully washed the lather from Cristiano’s hair, the sound of water dripping and sloshing.

 

Cristiano sighed, tracing a finger over Zidane’s hand, the strong fingers, down over the lines of his wrist.

 

“It was a funeral.”

 

Cristiano turned, surprised by the sound of Zidane’s voice, remote and toneless.

 

“We met at a funeral. And that is all you need to know.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Cristiano was finally well soaked and tired of lazing about in the water, Zidane had clambered out, dried off and dressed himself in a folded bathrobe on the counter. Cristiano stretched and yawned, and then turned to face Zidane, who was shaving himself in the sink. “James darling, could you get me something to wear as well?”

 

Without missing a beat, Zidane picked up a pair of high heels from the corner of the ground, and walked over, setting them beside the tub. Cristiano lifted an eyebrow at him in exasperation.

 

“Yes, because my Louboutin’s will keep out the cold so well.”  


“How about another trade then?” Zidane braced his hands on the rim of the tub, looming over Cristiano, who smiled up at him under his lashes. “A question for a robe.”

 

“I suppose I have no choice.” Cristiano said, leaning in closer to put his elbows on the rim of the tub as well.

 

“What were Virgil’s orders for you, back at the house?”

 

Cristiano’s smile remained, but his body had stilled. “Hmm. Well, I was really a jack of all trades for him. Entertaining the guests, that was Virgil’s idea of a joke, whoring out his own staff for their amusement.”

 

Cristiano shifted, and the glitter of his diamonds shone through the water, as he continued speaking. “But one of the main assignments was to make sure the double-oh that M-16 sent was suitably distracted, and taken care of as needed. Virgil’s associate wanted you alive as long as possible, as to not arouse M’s suspicions.”

 

“Who is this man?” Zidane asked.

 

“I do not know.” Cristiano shrugged. “It’ll be for you to find out. And now, may I get dressed?”

 

“I think you would be perfectly dressed with only the shoes. Less is more, they say.” Zidane hummed, standing up, offering Cristiano the heels.

 

“Oh?” Cristiano cut Zidane an exasperated look, but then pulled himself out of the tub, water sluicing down his naked body. He stepped gingerly out of the tub, plucking the shoes out of Zidane’s grasp. With an impudent sway of his haunches, he stepped delicately into his shoes, grasping at a towel to dry his hair and face.

 

Zidane’s fingers twitched as Cristiano looked back over his shoulder with a far too innocent look on his face. “Did you enjoy looking?”

 

“Always.”

 

“Good.” Cristiano smiled, all teeth and wickedness. “Because looking is the most you deserve tonight.”

 

Zidane growled, and in a few steps, had chased down a laughing Cristiano. In a sweep, he lifted Cristiano off his feet in a bridal carry.

 

He tossed Cristiano on the freshly made bed, who was still laughing, but was spreading his legs wide for Zidane, who took the unspoken invitation, shrugging off his robe and climbing on the bed, tugging Cristiano down the sheets by a grip underneath his knee, desperate to taste Cristiano between those long, powerful legs, to feel Cristiano’s heavy thighs quiver around his head as Zidane mouthed at the most vulnerable part of him, the taste of jasmine scented skin and salt and musk drugging him, urging Zidane on, while Cristiano shivered and sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

“So how do you know Sergio?” Zidane asked, his fingers playing with Cristiano’s still damp ringlets, curling into dark plastered locks, Cristiano tucked flush to his chest and breathing quietly, his breath tickling Zidane’s collarbones.

 

“Sese?” Cristiano murmured sleepily. “You heard most of it from him. We used to run into each other when we were both just starting out in the field. He didn’t mention that the first time we met, we were at someone’s white tie gathering, and he came up behind me and groped my ass. He apparently thought I was another agent. He apologized later, and I apologized for throwing a cocktail glass at his face.”

 

“Sounds like Ramos.” Zidane said. “Bulls straight through his missions without thinking half the time.”

 

“Gets captured by the target and needs to be bailed out twice the time.” Cristiano agreed.

 

“But somehow nearly always completes his missions, somehow. And no one more loyal.”

 

“No one.” Cristiano agreed. “He helped me find my attacker. It took a long time, I thought he was lost forever. But Sese promised to look for him, even though he had nothing to gain from helping me. And he did track him down, in some shitty small Russian town in the dead of winter.” Cristiano shivered. “I hate the cold. If I leave the field for good, I want to live somewhere warm all year round. Near the sea.”

 

“Mm.” Zidane hummed. “You’re just a big lazy housecat, spending its life in the sun napping.”

 

“Nothing wrong with that.” Cristiano yawned. “I’ve seen enough blood for a lifetime.”

 

* * *

 

 

“If we survive,” Zidane murmured into Cristiano’s hair, the room darkened. He wasn’t sure if Cristiano was asleep.

 

“If we survive, I’ll make sure you and your son will be safe.”

 

A still voice replied, soft as the curtains still fluttering in the night breeze. “That’s all I ask.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was morning, far too soon, and Zidane was cock deep inside Cristiano, for the last time.

 

“Are you sure you don’t need to prep now?” Zidane asked. “Better safe than sorry.”

 

“No point.” Cristiano gasped, biting his bottom lip, his mouth swollen and pink from earlier when Zidane had been face fucking him in earnest. “By the time we reach the island, it’ll have worn off, and I’ll have to start again. I can’t wear the lipstick continuously.”

 

Zidane ground into Cristiano wickedly, changing his angle, rubbing right against that silken spot where Cristiano cut off speaking, and could only mewl, eyes wide and pupils blown dark and wide.

 

“I will miss this.” Zidane spoke, his voice muffled against Cristiano’s neck.

 

“I will miss you too.” Cristiano moaned, his body arching underneath Zidane. “Don’t stop--!”

 

* * *

 

 

When they reached the marina, the day was bright and sunny, the water as bright as a jewel. Cristiano strode beside Zidane, keeping in step with him, dressed for once to blend in, with dark slacks and a thin white cotton tee. However, the cut of it shamelessly exposed the many love bites on his neck.

 

“So all we do is follow Sese’s tech?” Cristiano asked, balancing the duffel bag on his shoulder. Despite the weight of the weaponry and tech within, he held it as lightly as if it was nothing.

 

“Indeed.” Zidane replied. “It shouldn’t be so dangerous on our way there. But I’ll need your help once we are within the island.”

 

“First find Sese.” Cristiano walked down the planks of the dock where their boat was moored at. “Virgil and his M-16 associate should be meeting tomorrow to discuss the future, now that M is gone. If we can find the means to produce an antidote, as well as provide proof of their collaboration…”

 

“All’s well that ends well.” Zidane said. “And you will be reunited with your child again.”

 

“And us?” Cristiano smiled as he climbed onto the boat, swinging his duffle bag over. “Will we ever meet again?”

 

Zidane wished he could answer Cristiano in the affirmative. He watched Cristiano, his skin warming in the bright light, the play of the muscles in his back as he undid the rope tying the boat to the dock. Zidane did not have to reply. Cristiano already knew the answer.

 

It was a beautiful morning to have a last goodbye.

 

So it was all wrong when the jewel eyed bodyguard walked out of the cabin, with a gun aimed at Cristiano. It was all wrong when men streamed out with weapons, from above the deck railing and from other neighboring boats, all aimed at Zidane.

 

It was all wrong when the man pressed a revolver to the small of Cristiano’s back, an arm swinging out around Cristiano’s neck, a feral smile over his face, all teeth and hunger and victory.

 

Cristiano stumbled, and the bodyguard was forcing him backwards easily like a doll, his blue eyes boring into Zidane’s the entire time, clicking his tongue and pointing the weapon at Cristiano’s head when Zidane took a step forward.

 

“No, no.” The bodyguard chided, his voice ugly with power. “My orders were clear. I am to bring Cristiano in, dead or alive. If you wish him alive, you stay where you are.”

 

“Fuck you, Gerard.” Cristiano spat. “Bond, don’t—!“

 

“Shhh, Cris, shhh.” Gerard forced Cristiano’s head back, pulling him closer. “Don’t make it harder on yourself. You want to be nice to me. You do. Virgil said I could do anything with you, that you’re good as dead to him.” Gerard laved a wet stripe on Cristiano’s cheek, Cristiano twitching in recoil. “And you know everyone here’s just been waiting for you. We all want to see if you’re as good of a whore as you are a cocktease.”

 

There was a sudden flash of silver as Cristiano whipped out a knife, and Gerard shouted, the sound of bullets ricocheting, and it was instinct, instinct for Zidane to reach for his own gun while diving out of the way, bullets following him as well, except there was a blinding stab of pain in his side, and Zidane was rolling, falling, cold water rushing up to meet him. As he sank in the water, blood billowing out above him, bullets were rippling into the water, and sinking harmlessly beside him. And as he began to swim, upwards, the boat that was supposed to take him and Cristiano, began to stir, and in a roar of water and bubbles, rapidly left the marina far behind it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Zidane was grimly bandaging his waist, as he sat in the main cabin of his boat, when his cellphone piped in his coat pocket.

 

Zidane pulled out the phone, frowning to see that it was an unknown caller calling. Watching the phone ring twice, he lifted it up to answer the call.

 

“Hello?” He asked tersely.

 

“Bond.” A familiar acerbic tone greeted him.

 

“M.” Zidane’s smile was slight, but there. “The news of your death has been much exaggerated.”

 

“Rather the point.” She replied. “Better to lie low for now, while the rest of my team regroup.”

 

“What do you need?” Zidane asked, continuing to bandage his waist. A hint of red seeped through the bandages he had already fastened around his abdomen.

 

“I need you to confront Virgil.” M said crisply. “We know there’s a traitor at M-16. Impossible to say who exactly, in all the deaths and chaos we’ve had here, but I’ve received information about the next meeting between the two—tomorrow at 7 PM.”

 

“What do you think they’re meeting for?”

 

“Most likely a final exchange of the virus.” M said. “If the little cuckoo bird in our midst has his own stockpile, and bides low when Virgil truly makes good on his threats to release the virus en masse worldwide, he’ll be sitting pretty to cow any remaining powers to his every whim.”

 

“Did the antidote I sent back work?” Zidane asked.

 

“It did. Saved 003’s life, just in time. R&D are working overtime to synthesize enough to send out to world governments. But the fact of the matter is, we simply haven’t got enough of it, and not enough time, either.”

 

“You don’t need me to apprehend Virgil and our traitor.” Zidane said coolly. “You need me to assassinate them both.”

 

“You’d damn well better.” M said. “It’ll be the end of the world as we know it if you fail.”

 

“No pressure then.” Zidane smiled.

 

“A simple enough task for you, I should think.” M replied. “Now, about your transportation. How are you getting to Virgil’s location.”

 

“I’ve commandeered a ship.” Zidane shrugged. “Following the coordinates I was given, I should be there in time.”

 

“With Virgil aware of your presence half a day before you get there, I should think.” M said, his voice taking on an edge. “That simply won’t do.”

 

“I have no choice.” Zidane said. “I’ve recruited someone high up in Virgil’s organization, and he’s just been captured. If I don’t catch up to them by sea, there’s a good chance he’ll be killed.”

 

“There’s a good chance he’s already dead.” M said, as if dealing with a petulant child. “Don’t be ridiculous. Q will be in touch with you to organize something quicker.”

 

“I can’t let him die, M. I made him a promise.” Bond ground out.

 

“If the world dies around us, none of your promises will mean anything to any of us.” M replied sharply. And then, she continued speaking in a gentler tone. “Bond. I can’t have you shilly shallying about this mission to save one person. It’s hundreds of millions of lives at stake here, not to mention the future of free civilization.”

 

Zidane was silent for a long time, as he deftly finished bandaging himself up. He heard M sigh, an unusual break of emotion from her.

 

“I’m sorry.” She said. “I know what your promises mean to you.”

 

“M?”

 

“Yes, Bond?”

 

Zidane paused for a long moment, opening his mouth to speak once, before tensing his jaw without saying a word. Finally, he spoke. “You know my wishes, should I not survive this mission. Please send Veronique and the boys my love.”

 

“You’re a credit to your family, Bond. No matter what they think of your work.” M said, before she ended the call.

 

* * *

 

 

When Cristiano woke up, it took a couple of minutes for him to fully orient himself.

 

The last thing he remembered was being held down, as someone clapped a damp cloth over his mouth and nose, his body unwillingly, but slowly growing weaker in his struggles, the leering faces of unfamiliar men holding him down as he went under into a syrup thick darkness.

 

Cristiano idly wondered if he was dead, and in the afterlife, a bright light boring into his eyes. An old childhood memory of a prayer was alight on his lips, his mother having him kneel before his bed, and teaching him how to fold his hands correctly, before repeating a low intone of words, soothing and rolling, like the waves of an ocean.

 

_Forgive us our trespasses—_

_as we forgive those_

_who trespass_

_against us—_

His mother had said, tenderly massaging Cris’s back, as she listened to him whisper the words back to her. “Good, Cristiano. You’re a very good boy.”

 

And Cristiano wanted to argue with her, burrow into her lap, cry and ask for her forgiveness, tell her about all the men he had killed, all the lives he had torn apart, but here he was still a child, wide eyed and innocent, and he hadn’t done any of those things yet, and so he didn’t say a word.

 

And her mouth shaped the rest of the prayer, and Cristiano tried to follow her words, only the light was bearing more cruelly down into his eyes, and he was properly waking up now, properly becoming aware of all body’s aches and pains.

 

And Cristiano opened his eyes properly, the light at the end of the tunnel focusing into a fluorescent light above his head, the garish light revealing the small, mossy, hewn rock walls of his prison, as Cristiano gingerly sat himself up.

 

He recognized the place immediately. Somehow Cristiano had been kept drugged for the past few days, and without his notice, had been deposited squarely into Virgil’s grasp, holding cells underneath the seeping bedrock of the island. These cells were ancient, quarried into the foundation far centuries ago. According to some, the island had used to be a pleasure castle for a long disappeared noble family. The structure above was elegantly Grecian and pleasing in design, but the cells underneath bespoke a darker purpose to the island. Virgil had modernized the hallways and the larger cells, but the tinier rooms remained as they were, the remains of long rusted away chains and manacles still staining the walls.

 

To Cristiano’s eye, the color looked rather unpleasantly like blood, under the stuttering light.

 

“Cris?” A voice whispered.

 

Cristiano jumped at the sound, turning quickly to face the speaker.

 

Sergio Ramos was staring back at him, flush against the bars of his own cell, one hand gripping the steel latticework tightly. Cristiano noted that his other arm was limply hanging down against Sergio’s body.

 

“Are you all right?” Sergio asked. “God, you’ve been out for so long. I thought those fucks might have done permanent damage to you.”

 

“No, I’m fine.” Cristiano gritted as he got up unsteadily on his feet. “How long have I been here? What day is it?”

 

“It’s Tuesday afternoon, as far as I can guess, and you’ve been out cold since last night.” Sergio said.

 

“Shit.” Cristiano breathed, as he gripped the latticework of his own cell for balance, facing a worried looking Sergio. “It’s too late then. Virgil and his MI6 colleague are going to meet tonight. After that, Virgil’s going to set the world on fire.”

 

Sergio exhaled, his face turning pale. “There’s still Bond.”

 

“I don’t know if he’s still alive.” Cristiano said, closing his eyes to rest them from the bright light, resting his forehead against the cold chill of the steel trapping him. “Some men surprised us at the dock…last I saw, Bond fell into the water after being shot. He didn’t come back up.”

 

“James is crafty.” Sergio argued. “I’ve seen him beat worse odds than this.”

 

“It won’t matter, for me.” Cristiano murmured. “Virgil’s going to invite me to dinner tonight.”

 

Sergio inhaled sharply. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means…” Cristiano bit his lip. “It means he’s going to fulfill that promise he made me, the day he caught me in this.”

 

“So…not a good promise?” Sergio asked, his voice cracking on a higher pitch. “Maybe the kind of promise where he describes how slowly and painfully he’s going to kill you?”

 

“Something like that.” Cristiano gripped the steel, the metal cutting into his tense fingers.

 

“Well, I’m not giving up.” Sergio’s voice grew rougher. “I’ve already made some progress. I’ve found a weak spot in the wall.”

 

“We’re nearly two stories deep in pure bedrock, Sese.” Cristiano murmured. “A little loose rock doesn’t mean much.”

 

“Maybe.” Sergio said, with a unmistakable tone of smugness. “If the rock didn’t expose some of the circuit board that’s keeping our doors shut.”

 

“What?” Cristiano’s eyes shot open.

 

“I managed to work at it, over the past couple days I’ve been here.” Sergio gestured. “The problem is, I was using a bit of rusted metal to work the box open, and it just crumbled in my hands yesterday. Do you have anything?”

 

“I don’t think so….” Cristiano did a quick search of himself, dressed in the same white tee and slacks that he wore the morning he had been caught, and drugged. “They’ve been thorough.” Cristiano tensed his mouth as he finished checking the seams of his clothes. “They even found the plastic needles sewn into the fabric.”

 

“Wait.” Cristiano paused, as he stopped checking his inseam. _Maybe…_

 

He pulled the collar of his white tee, and looked at his chest.

 

And still sparkling, a demure scintillation in the shadow of the cotton tee, were his diamond piercings.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio doggedly scratched at the circuit box, trying to weaken its defenses, as Cristiano listened tensely for any signs of guards.

 

“Why didn’t you wear your two carat diamonds?” Sergio groused as he worked. “These little ones are hurting my hands to hold like this.”

 

“Be grateful you have those at all.” Cristiano snapped back. “I suppose they couldn’t figure out the trick of getting these free when they searched me.”

 

Sergio glanced back at Cristiano, his forehead knotting. “Did they hurt you?”

 

“I don’t know.” Cristiano tensed his jaw. “I was drugged the whole time...”

 

Sergio’s mouth thinned into a line, as he began to redouble his efforts. “We’ll hunt them all down, when we’re free.”

 

“Sese…” Cristiano said, in a soft voice.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I can’t leave this place.”

 

“What? What are you talking about?” Sergio was looking back up at Cristiano, his face tense with emotion. “Just give me some time! I promise, we’re both getting out of here. Bond will come. Everything’s going to be all right.”

 

“I can’t leave.” Cristiano whispered. “Virgil has my son. It’ll be his life if I escape like this.”

 

Sergio had stopped working at the box, choosing to grip at the latticework of his door, his face terribly empty of emotion.

 

“But you can still save yourself.” Cristiano went on in a whisper. “You can still see the next sunrise.”

 

Sergio’s chest heaved, as he dumbly shook his head.

 

“Sese.” Cristiano shook all over, as he continued speaking. “I want to tell you thank you. For helping me back then. I never did, properly. I still think about our time together, stuck two weeks in the dead of winter for the next train in that shitty Russian motel. Your kindness meant everything to me.”

 

Sergio raised his hand. “Stop.”

 

Cristiano bit his lip.

 

“Just. Stop.” Sergio heaved himself from the door, and then, in a sudden release of tension, punched the metal of the circuit box.

 

Cristiano saw the way Sergio heaved over from the recoil, his face whitening as the reverberation shook his broken arm.

 

But he also saw a sharp release of sparks, crackling in the air. And then, the slow, slow, opening of Sergio’s door, the movement loud and screeching in the small hallway, Cristiano’s heart in his mouth, sure that any seconds guards would be shouting and running down to them, guns out, before the door could open all the way—

 

Sergio squeezed his way out, and in a quick movement, grasped at Cristiano’s hands that were still holding onto his door. A quick shared glance between them, Sergio’s gaze intense and serious, taking in his last look of Cris, and then Sergio was gone, loping down the hallway.

 

Cristiano shut his eyes, as the shouts of the guards began to be heard, the sound of heavy running feet, the blur of bodies running past his cell.

 

 _Please._ Cristiano found himself praying, to someone, something, anything. _Please. Let him escape. Let him live._

There was the sharp sound of a gunshot reverberating in the hallway, and Cristiano gasped, as he collapsed on the ground, his knees suddenly too weak to support him.

 

Time passed, nightmarishly slow, minutes on top of unbearable minutes, a quarter of an hour, then half--Cristiano listening for any other sounds, other gunshots, shouts that the prisoner had gotten free, anything.

 

And then there was sounds, the guards talking loudly as they walked back. Cristiano curled into a ball as he heard their light conversation, bright and cheerful.

 

“Stupid idiot.” They said to each other, passing Cris’s cell.

 

“Must have gotten lost.” The other said. “Running down into the processing room like that instead of taking the stairs up like any other right minded man.”

 

“Glad we caught him though. I wouldn’t want to meet with the boss, when he’s in one of his moods like now.”

 

And Cristiano numbly, began to process the sound of something heavy being dragged on the ground, the scraping noise becoming louder and louder, nearly right to his door.

 

And Cris opened his eyes, taking a deep inhale to steel himself. He wouldn’t break down like this, not here.

 

Sergio lay limply on the ground, his limbs lifeless as a doll’s, his face badly beaten bloody and dark, a fresh bullet wound seeping into the meat of his thigh. The guards coolly dragged him into an adjoining cell, leaving him to lie on the ground.

 

“He’ll probably bleed out like this.” One of them observed as they closed the door.

 

“Tough luck.” The other one shrugged. “We can drag out the body in the morning.”

 

And with that, the two left, laughing to each other about Sergio’s stupidity.

 

“Sese.” Cristiano whispered, a breathless sound that he couldn’t even hear in his own ears, full of the sound of his beating heart. And then he swallowed. “Sese.” He said aloud.

 

His voice was still too low, too soft to be heard.

 

But then Sergio cracked an eye, a small sign of life in the ruin of his face, bleeding from his mouth and ears. His hand twitched, as if in greeting.

 

As Cristiano watched, Sergio, slowly, uncertainly, reached a hand over into his shirt pocket. He felt for something there, his hand spasming the whole time.

 

And then he rolled something small at Cristiano, the sound of it as it crossed his door, and over the hallway, to stop delicately at Cris’s door.

 

Cristiano picked up the item, with his own hands shaking. When he had curled his hand over it, Sergio sighed, as if in relief, and closed his eyes.

 

In Cris’s hand, lay a tube of his lipstick.

 

* * *

 

 

When the guards deposited the evening clothes that Virgil had sent down for dinner, Cristiano had changed into them docilely, without looking up at the guards who stood there silently as he dressed.

 

It was a lovely suit, as it was. A deep midnight black, with a sheen almost like satin. Embroidered in silver thread, nearly invisible to the eye, was a delicate pattern almost like lace all over the fabric. There was a matching heather grey dress shirt to go underneath the suit, and of course the evening wear had been fitted to a nicety on Cristiano’s body.

 

It was a beautiful suit to die in. Cristiano thought to himself. He refused to let himself think longingly of his many dresses, silks and chiffon and lace, and the jewels he had to match them with—ropes of pearls, delicate little chains of white gold and emeralds, heavy chokers seeded in spinels and sapphires.

 

Instead, he let himself be led by the guards, without a look at Sergio, out of the lower levels, and up, through an elevator, to the very top floor of the building.

 

It was a beautiful room, modernized to take advantage of the high ceilings, a skylight installed to allow an untrammeled view of the starry night sky above. A long table was set underneath, loaded down with a dizzying array of delicacies as Cristiano was led to his place, the guard silently pulling out his chair, and letting Cristiano settle into the seat gracefully.

 

Seated at the head of the table, to Cristiano’s right, was Virgil.

 

Except Virgil looked differently than what Cristiano had ever seen him before.

 

His face was a dark congested purple, his features long stiffened with death, a look of utter fury still contorted his face, as blood darkly painted his mouth, and the front of the tablecloth.

 

Cristiano only stared quizzically at Virgil for a moment, remaining silent as the guard went about pouring his wine delicately into its glass.

 

“You must be Cristiano.” A voice said, echoing in the room, making it impossible to tell where the speaker was.

 

Cristiano looked around him curiously, but with the same languid grace controlling his movements. “You have all the advantage, here.” He said politely. “You know me, but I cannot even see you.”

 

“I’ve certainly heard of you.” The voice chuckled. And then a figure stepped out of the darkness, approaching the table from the other side of Cristiano.

 

“You must be the one from MI6.” Cristiano spoke, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Are you also in the double-oh program?”  
  
The man pulled out his chair, and sat down smoothly in it, sprawling impolitely in the seat, as he waited for the guard to hurriedly walk over to pour his wine as well. “Are you referring to our friend here?” The man pointed a fork over at Virgil, stiff in his seat at the head of the table. “I certainly killed him, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

 

The man reached over to spear a hunk of pheasant, dragging it over to his plate, the juice dripping stains all over the white tablecloth. He began to eat with gusto, pausing only to gesture at Cristiano with his knife. “Come. You should eat as well. No need to let good food spoil.”

 

Cristiano kept his hands in his lap, as the man continued to eat. “And to answer your question,” The man said, between his great bites of food, frankly enjoying the repast before them, “I was. Once upon a time.”

 

“Why do this.” Cristiano asked lowly, as the man took a swallow of his wine. “Why ally yourself with Virgil, only to kill him?”

 

“Because he was in my way.” The man said simply. “He had no imagination, that one. Comes from being in research all one’s life. They’re only interested in their little projects, data collection, the why’s of things. He may have designed the virus, but he had no conception of its sheer beauty, its genius.”

 

“What was the genius of it, if I may ask?”

 

“Are you always so polite?” The man laughed. “Certainly you can. That little virus has the power to make this world a better place.”

 

“I fail to see how killing millions of lives makes the world a better place.”

 

“See, you don’t have any imagination either.” The man grinned at him, a feral light glinting in his eyes. “A beautiful face, and a body that’s trapped countless men like honey. But nothing else in that pretty little head.” He shook his head sadly. “With this virus…I can bring this world justice. I can finally reward every evil deed with its rightful punishment.”

 

“Do you know what I’ve seen?” The man went on, as he threw his head back to swallow oysters. “So much death. So much misery in this crowded little planet of ours. Warlords and traffickers, murderers and thieves, in broad daylight, ruining good peoples lives. And the people who were supposed to be protecting the innocent not doing a damn thing to stop them.”

 

“You’re going to kill a great deal of innocent people as well.” Cristiano noted sharply.

 

The man shrugged. “They’d die anyways, one way or another. This way, their deaths can mean something. Their deaths can purchase a new world.”

 

“There’s nothing new about your rhetoric.” Cristiano bit out. “I’ve heard your arguments before, by men just as delusional as you.”

 

“Oh, but Cristiano.” The man stood up, walking over to Cristiano’s side, Cris looking straight ahead as the man’s hands gripped the back of his chair. “That’s exactly what someone like you would say. A wolf in lamb’s clothing, pretending that it wasn’t a predator.”

 

“I know what you are.” Suddenly the man’s hands were on his chin, forcing it up, forcing Cristiano to face him, to meet eye to eye. “I know all the people you’ve killed, working with Virgil. Such ugly deeds for such a pretty face.”

 

“I know you were also Rio’s little whore.” The man mused, as Cristiano struggled to pull the man’s hands off him, but his strength nothing against the bestial force in those man’s hands. “Back when you were both still with the Americans. He couldn’t stop bragging to everyone about the sweet little thing he had waiting for him back home.”

 

“What did Rio do to you?” Cristiano gasped, finally pushing back, finally getting free of those monstrous hands. “Why do you hate him so much?”

 

“He betrayed me, on a joint mission.” The man said, sitting back on the table with an angelic smile on his face, as if he hadn’t had his hands on Cristiano a moment before. “He left me to rot in a third world prison. He left me to suffer.”

 

“Rio was a good man.” Cristiano spat at the man. “If he left you to die, it was for a good reason.”

 

“You have a lot of grit.” The other man snapped his fingers, and before Cristiano could realize, other hands were holding him down, guards spilling out of the darkness, Cris easily overcome without a fight. “I hope your kid has some of that. He’ll need it, to survive the training I’ll put him through.”

 

“No!” Cristiano shouted, trying to pull free, as the man quickly lifted Cris’s glass of wine off the table, and walked forward with it, gripping Cris’s mouth open. “Not him. Don’t you dare!”

 

“He’ll be a great killer. He’ll have inherited that from you.” The man noted. And without another word, he forced the wine down Cristiano’s throat.

 

* * *

 

 

 But another moment, and all the room was filled with the sound of shattering, of raining glass, as someone broke through the skylight.

 

A sound of quick gunshots, and the guards holding up Cristiano fell down without a word, neat bullet wounds in their heads as they slumped.

 

And Zidane landed feet first on the table, another parry of gunshots and the other guards spilling from the room went down, shouts splitting the air, screams as Zidane’s shots took down bodies brutally, no easy deaths for anyone anymore—

 

And as the last man went down, he heard a chuckle, and he quickly turned, revolver ready to shoot—

 

only it was Diego, laughing, holding his own gun to Cristiano’s head, Cris’s eyes starting to flutter, swaying in Diego’s grip.

 

“Put it down, Zidane.” Diego said. “Or you can watch your whore die with a bullet in his head.”

 

Zidane kept his weapon trained at Diego, completely still.

 

“If you keep wasting time, he’ll die anyways.” Diego said in a light voice. “He just had a mega dose of the virus. A completely non-infectious dose, but still deadly.” Diego grinned. “If you want to fuck him one last time, you’d better hurry up.”

 

Zidane didn’t respond. But his body slowly uncoiled, relaxing his arms, letting his weapon drop, clattering on the ground, as his hands went up to his head.

 

“Is he worth that much to you, Zidane?” Diego said, as he tossed Cristiano’s body to the ground like a doll, Cris breaking into a fit of long coughing as he lay there weakly. “Maybe he reminds you of your son a little.”

 

Zidane merely stared back at Diego, standing on the table ramrod straight, as Diego approached him, looking up at the agent with his own weapon still pointed at him.

 

“You’ve been a good double-oh, Zidane. Maybe even a good man.” Diego said. “Always have been, since your boy’s funeral. I remember M walking up to you, making you that offer when you were still in handcuffs. Maybe you took that deal she offered to save your miserable skin, maybe you took it to avenge your boy’s death. Maybe both.” Diego shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve always tried to do the right thing. Even when you had to fight through every level of bureaucracy and M’s displeasure to do it.”

 

“So I’m making you my offer.” Diego put his weapon down on the ground as well, with his hands out in a placating gesture. “Join me.”

 

Zidane only looked at him.

 

“Join me, and we can build a better world together. You know what this stinking planet is, rotten with filth, filled with the corpses of the innocent, while fat men, rich men, powerful men, feast and feast and _feast_. We can make this world right. We can build a better world, where good men don’t rot in prison for decades. Where brave little children, like your boy, don’t die while standing up for what’s right.”

 

“Now him,” Diego jerked a thumb back at Cristiano, starting to gasp weakly for air, blood painting his mouth red. “He doesn’t deserve your pity, Zidane. He really doesn’t. He’s a traitor, just like Virgil was. I’ve seen him kill men, and a lot of them in ugly ways. Spread his legs for them, than slit their throats as they spilled in him. He ruined all those lives, all for the sake of his own son. One boy, and he killed dozens of innocent lives for him.”

 

“So what do you say.” Diego breathed, as Zidane closed his eyes. “Are you going to do what your boy would have wanted?”

 

Zidane bowed his head, as he stepped forward, in apparent acquiescence—

 

and his foot whipped out, lashing free a filled silver plate that flew into Diego’s face.

 

And Diego pulled out another revolver in an instant, shooting at Zidane—

 

But that instant was all Zidane needed, as he leapt for his own weapon, barely dodging the shots above him, rolling off the table as he returned his own volley of shots, all of them shooting wide.

 

“There’s no difference between him and me.” Zidane snarled out loud, as he ran out of bullets, only he was counting shots, and knew Diego had run out as well. “The only difference is his boy’s _alive_.”

 

And with that, Zidane leapt, grabbing a knife from the table, rushing Diego.

 

Only Diego pulled out his own knife, and was roaring too, his strikes lightning fast as he parried Zidane stroke for stroke.

 

Their furious battle brought them step by step closer to the balcony of the room, Zidane kicking Diego in the chest, knocking him back through the French doors and on his back.

 

But as Zidane rushed up to finish him, Diego threw his own knife—

 

and Zidane bared his teeth as he staggered back, but there was nothing to be done with Diego’s knife protruding from his abdomen, regaining his feet instantly despite the head ringing pain, but Diego was up on his feet already too close—

 

and Zidane screamed in agony as Diego twisted his knife into Zidane, his leonine features twisted in triumph, his white smile revealing all his teeth as he tensed the knife deeper one more time, before withdrawing it.

 

Zidane dropped to his back, his vision starting to darken, trying to blink back the unconsciousness as Diego stood astride him.

 

“You could have been a great man, Zidane.” Diego said, regretfully, as he picked up Zidane by the collar of his neck, readying his knife to plunge into his chest—

 

But there was a clatter behind Zidane, and suddenly a body ran into Diego, the momentum and the surprise of it shoving Diego and the figure flush against the low marble railing of the balcony.

 

Zidane only realized it was Cristiano when Diego started screaming, Cristiano withdrawing, straightening himself after kissing Diego, Cris’s blood painting the other man’s mouth—no, Cris’s _lipstick_ reddening Diego’s mouth—

 

“Rot in hell.” Cristiano hissed.

 

And with a vicious heave, Cristiano pushed Diego over the balcony.

 

Zidane panted, his abdomen on fire, the blood ringing in his ears, for a moment not believing what had just happened.

 

And then, Cristiano slowly sunk into the ground, in a broken little heap, gasping smally as he was racked with wet coughing, the red of his lipstick indistinguishable from his blood.

 

And Zidane felt his body move, as if strings that were attached to his limbs had suddenly twitched, forcing him to move, gritting his teeth against the pain, as he slowly crawled to Cristiano’s side, inch by terrible inch, seeping blood every step of the way.

 

Cristiano was limp by the time he pulled him into his lap, Zidane sitting himself up on the balcony balustrade, cradling Cris in his arms, Cris’s eyes barely aware of him, the light in them slowly dimming as his breathing grew slower.

 

“Cristiano.” Zidane shook the body in his arms. “Please.”

 

Cristiano’s eyes focused for a second on Zidane’s face, staying there as Zidane spoke.

 

“Nothing in this world I’ve been in for the last five years has shone as bright as you.” Zidane breathed, fighting to keep his consciousness. “Nothing has felt real since. Not since Enzo.”

 

Cristiano sighed, and closed his eyes.

 

“Don’t go.” Zidane begged. “I made you a promise. Don’t let me break it. Please.”

 

And as Zidane held on desperately to Cristiano, the night sky was punctuated with bright searchlights, the sound of people shouting, the loud roar of helicopters breaking the stillness, and Zidane was slipping under, Cristiano in his arms turning into perfect jasmine petals, that with another moment, the wind blew it all away into nothingness.

 

And Zidane was falling, only falling upwards, his limbs floating in an ether field of stars, as he saw Diego fall away from him like a shadow on the water, a water that froze into a perfect sea of ice, and Zidane saw fantastic figures seizing about him, twisted heads and tusked mouths and endless appetite and unquenched thirst. Fiery flowers blooming in the sky all around them, the scent of tears and aspen milk, as the mighty forest of humanity swallowed axes and lived forever. A wind that tore at him, pulled darkness from him, strip by strip, a wind that sounded much like the way Cristiano sighed his pleasure in his arms, a wind that finally, lifted him up, into the warmth and light.

 

* * *

 

 

And Zidane awoke, head muggy, his mouth sour with an metallic taste, his limbs feeling useless and swollen, as he realized he was in a bed, and he was in the hospital, the loud beeping of the machines next to him, and the way his arms were essentially trapped with IV lines and dressings.

 

“Bond.” A voice said crisply, and Zidane turned to see M standing next to his bed. Every detail of her person was faultless, except for the dark shadows underneath her eyes.

 

“You must have had a long night.” Zidane murmured.

 

“Indeed.” M nodded. “It was rather touch and go for you. Not to mention the trouble of addressing all the surprises Diego left for us.”

 

“Cristiano.” Zidane asked. “Where is he?”

 

M straightened. “I wanted to tell you personally, Bond.”

 

Zidane already knew what she was about to say, from the firm lines of her mouth, to the little inhale of resignation before she spoke.

 

“I’m sorry, Bond.” She said, in a voice so gentle Zidane wanted to punch the wall with his bare fist. “We did everything we could.”


End file.
